The Living Lady

2012-01-18T16:47:00.000-08:00

NancyWhite Kelly

Being a newspaper columnist for morethan thirty years, it is common to be recognized by strangers. Friendly folks oftenapproach me in public places and comment about a particular column or just mywriting in general. Positive feedback is one of the pleasures of writing.Occasionally there is a negative like what occurred last week.

Buddy and I made a trip to ourclosest Wal-Mart. My list was shorter than his so I finished rather quickly. Withmy purchased packages in hand, I settled on a small bench next to a lady towait.

“Honey, how is your daughter?”

“I don’t have a daughter,” I repliedwith a half-smile, stretching my neck in hope of seeing Buddy.

“Is your mother doing better?”

I couldn’t help but grin. Obviouslythis dear lady had me mixed up with someone else or hadn’t read my book. Mymother passed away several years ago.

“She is in a better place,” Ianswered while watching the cashier lines for a glimpse of that husband ofmine. It is usually him waiting on me.

“Can I help?” she asked.

I turned sideways to look moreclosely at the lady’s face. Did she know what Buddy looked like, I wondered.

It was then that I noticed that uglybug-like attachment in her ear. An audible groan immerged from my innards.

Ma Bell’s famous mantra: “Reach out andtouch someone” quickly came to mind. So did the old saying, “Fool me once,shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

This was my second embarrassing incidentof phantom talking. My last episode of responding to someone on a cell phonewas in a bathroom stall.

Buddy appeared out of nowhere and askedhow long I had been waiting. I took a good look at both ears before replying.It was a silly exercise. Neither Buddy nor I own a blue tooth…or any othercolor ear piece. My red face is explanation enough.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-12-30T14:57:00.001-08:00

Journal of aLiving Lady #412

NancyWhite Kelly

Christmas, 2011, check. New Year’s Eve,2011, check. New Year, 2012, in progress.

Buddy and I know we are getting old bythe way we welcome each new year. When we first married and were very muchyounger, New Year’s Eve was a time to count the hours down. Most times we didit in church by eating and fellowshipping until near mid-night and then movedto the auditorium to pray in the next year. We don’t do that anymore and missit. That might be the only event that would draw us from our comfortable beds.I know the often expressed reasons from our generation. “We don’t drive at night.“or “Too many drunks on the road.” For sure, we don’t have to be in church topray, but it was nice to be together with friends of one accord.

Ikeep reading and hearing that 2012 is to be a cataclysmic year. With the 2012phenomenon spreading across the globe, each day brings a steady stream ofemails, postings, books and movies, all containing at least an hint ofnegativity.

I am not a pessimist. Maybe the worldwill end as we know it. If so, there is another world and, if prepared, a muchbetter one. That’s not a terrible scenario. If I am hinting at religious faith,I don’t mean too. Let me shout it. There is life after death. All that iswithin me clings to that belief.

Beetles fans will remember that GeorgeHarrison sung a song from his album, ‘All things Must Pass” entitled “What isLife?” As a single, it hit the top 10 immediately. The back side of that recordwas, “My Sweet Lord.” Surprised?

What will 2012 bring? Life? Yes, atleast for us. Buddy and I are expecting our next grandchild in late spring.Death? Maybe. We have many friends and relatives who are aged or seriously ill.

Nodoubt there will be happenings this new year that are awe-inspiring, miraculous, tragic and sublime. Humansthrough-out history have lived and died through similar highs and lows. Theyear 2012 could be no less or no more than other year. When 2013 arrives, wewill have travelled a road that was the start or dead-end for many.

James 4:14 asks and thenanswers, "For what is your life? It is even as a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and thenvanishes away"

So how do we managetoday? Live in the moment, grateful for any opportunity to do good before our“poof.”

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-12-10T15:53:00.001-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #411

Nancy White Kelly

It would have been a good week if Buddy didn’t have a cold and we didn’t have this peculiar smell in our house. Buddy is like many husbands in that when he is sick he behaves worse than a toddler. He is just plain grumpy and whiney. I have to put up with him for seven days while he blows and blows, coughs and coughs, and clears his throat with the most annoying volume.

Admittedly, I would not make a good nurse as I am unsympathetic to complainers. Good grief! It is only a cold. It’s not terminal. Get a life.

I don’t care for a lot of doting when I am sick so what kind of man did I marry? The most sympathetic husband in the world who can’t do enough for me no matter how minor the illness. If I have a rash, he dabs it with medicine three times a day. If my temperature is even a smidgen above 98.6, he brings me wet, cold rags, fixes canned chicken soup for breakfast and insists I see a doctor. Not a general practitioner. It needs to be a pulmonary specialist.

Buddy and I are living testimony to the fact that opposites attract. He is a Mississippi country boy and I am a highly educated Jill of all trades. He brags about being the only boy in fifth grade who had a driver’s license. At last count, I held six licenses of some type.

Thankfully we share a sense of humor though I am Abbott and he is Costello. You younger readers would better understand the analogy with living people like Jim Carey and Betty White.

Back to the Buddy and that smell. For once I found one thing about his cold for which to be grateful. He didn’t seem to notice that obnoxious smell.

This strange odor permeated our house for days. I burned candles, opened doors, dug into cabinets and drawers, and examined all closets trying to locate the source of that odd smell.

When I stubbed my big toe my eyes caught something peculiar in the floor vent. How on earth did a piece of old onion get in the bedroom vent? I threw it in the garbage and glanced at the vent in the kitchen. Then in the den. Then in the bathroom. Every one of those metal vents had a piece of raw onion forced into it.

I immediately knew the real culprit: Buddy the Gullible.

A few weeks ago he read me an Internet article about the therapeutic value of onions. One variance of the theory says that if you cut off both ends of an onion and put it in a jar next to a sick person, the onion would turn black by drawing bacteria and viruses from the air.

It is true that in 1919, 40 million people died from a flu epidemic. Supposedly a doctor came upon a farmer whose household was entirely healthy. The difference was that the wife had placed a peeled onion in a dish in every room. The doctor placed the onion under a microscope and found the flu virus in the onion which allegedly absorbed the bacteria.

A more recent story told about an Arizona hairdresser who, in the midst of a flu epidemic, hung raw onion around her shop. None of her staff got sick.

Buddy knew I would never let raw onion sit around the house. What would the neighbors think? I checked it out on Snopes, the Internet verifier of such tales that go viral. You can read the lengthy response too if you want to know even more.

The Snopes article ends with this pontifical statement: “If you choose to place a few onions around your home, the downside would be that your nearest and dearest will regard you as somewhat eccentric.”

Need I say more?

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-11-26T14:43:00.001-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #410
Nancy White Kelly

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Our dinner was wonderful. Last year I cooked. This year Charlie’s in-laws did.

Tori’s parents retired last year and moved close-by. We have become good friends so our holidays have evolved into clan gatherings.

Charlie’s wife, Tori, is expecting again, a secret I promised to keep until confirmed. They have now heard that miraculous tick-tock and are hoping for a girl this time. They have two boys, Micah, 6, and Noah, 4.

Tori has had significant morning sickness, more like 24/7, and is porting an I.V. of anti-nausea medication to combat the serious up-chucking. She has already spent two stays in the hospital. Hopefully all will clear up soon and the middle trimester of the pregnancy will be much better for her than the first.

Tori did make it for Thanksgiving dinner which was a fun affair for us all. Well, not exactly for me. I woke up with excruciating pain in my back and right hip. As long as I laid flat, I was fine. The effort of getting on my feet was torturous. What could I have done in my sleep on a rainy night? Nothing I could think of.

Stubbornly, I insisted on being a part of Thanksgiving dinner, one of the highlights of our year. I paid a price. Getting in and out of the car was torment.

The Living Lady tried not to spoil the teasing and bantering that accompanies such family gatherings, but nobody could ignore the two elephants in the room: Tori with her I.V. bag and my piercing groan and grimace when I stood.

Buddy and I returned home late in the afternoon. I headed straight for the bed. Minutes later Buddy appeared in the bedroom doorway. He was pale, sweaty and in obvious pain, quite contrary to his comedic, hypochondriac personality.

He explained that after moving the car under the carport, a feisty neighbor dog charged at him. Buddy picked up a small rock and slung it toward the dog in an attempt to send him home. Pain raced through his right shoulder. He said he almost passed out.

Just when Buddy needed me, I could be of no help. My back pain was screaming for attention too. Two married senior citizens, painfully incapacitated on the same day is no small matter. Growing old is not for sissies.

Being a holiday week-end, our regular physicians were enjoying their families. We doctored ourselves with pills from the medicine cabinet. We both moaned through the night, occasionally laughing at the irony.

Today we still hurt, but maybe a tad less than on Thanksgiving Day. Life goes on. No matter what, we still have much to give thanks for which reminds me of the time I was teaching kindergarten many years ago.

I asked the five-year-olds to draw a picture of what they were thankful for. I walked around the tables, praising each of the pictures. Luke’s drawing was different. His turkey had a huge black X heavily scribbled on the turkey’s beautifully colored wings.

My curiosity took hold.“Tell me about your picture, Luke. What are you thankful for?”

The boy looked at me in disbelief. How could his teacher be so ignorant of its meaning?

“Mrs. Kelly, I am thankful that I am NOT a turkey.”

Me, too, Luke.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-11-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #409

Nancy White Kelly

There is a Ginny Winder in our front yard. Buddy built it recently for our grandkids. Unless you were born in the yon, pre-computer days, you probably haven’t a clue as to what a Ginny is.

Buddy and I have been amazed at the number of people who have pull into our driveway and inquired about our Ginny, modified slightly with a plastic chairs on each end. The original had sticks for grip handles.

This outdoor toy was a common yard adornment in our day, just like a hanging tire or rope swing. My dad frequently made us toys that took knee, arm, or leg power to propel. No batteries were needed. That was a good thing since we could not have afforded them anyway.

All it takes to make a Ginny is a sturdy tree stump and a long piece of lumber. Similar to a see-saw, children sit on opposite ends of the board. A third person controls its horizontal swirl with a repeating shoves. When he tires of pushing, one of the riders dismounts and trades places. We burned a lot of energy and calories while having fun.

I remember other childhood activities like marbles, hop-scotch, and Red Rover. However, not all my time was spent playing. I had chores.

As the only girl, I got clothesline duty which, according to my mother and grandmother, had to be done a certain way. The rules for our three clothes lines were unwritten, but indisputable.

Clothes were to be hung in a certain order. All the white were hung first. Shirts were hung by the tails. In order to hide our undies from the busybodies and peeping Toms, the towels and sheets were put on the outside lines.

Sub-zero winter didn’t matter. Clothes still had to be hung outside where they would quickly freeze dry. Many a wintery day I brought in clothes that were as stiff as the proverbial board.

For efficiency, the clothes were strung along so that items did not need two pins. The second pin shared the edge of the next item on the line.

An email friend sent a poem last week that stirred my nostalgia for clothes lines. Enjoy.

A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by,
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.
It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew,
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.
For then you'd see the "fancy sheets"
And towels upon the line;
You'd see the "company table cloths"
With intricate designs.
The line announced a baby's birth
From folks who lived inside -
As brand new infant clothes were hung,
So carefully with pride!
The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed,
You'd know how much they'd grown!
It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.
It also said, "Gone on vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged,
with not an inch to spare!
New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy and gray,
As neighbors carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way.
But clotheslines now are of the past,
For dryers make work much less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess!

Not only are the clothes lines gone from our lives. Many of our neighbors have passed too. They went to their graves without ever knowing about Facebook, blogs and fancy phones.

Some would argue that these are the best of days with all our electronic gizmos. Not me. I would like to go back to the days of clotheslines and Ginny Winders.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-10-29T15:55:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #408

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy and I have recently returned from visiting our siblings. All live in the Memphis area. I have three brothers, one older, two younger, and a sister who was born the spring I graduated from high school. Buddy has an older brother and a sister. Two of my brothers are widowers and among the jobless. Three of our brothers are not in good health.

During the long drive, Buddy and I talked about bucket lists, those things you would like to accomplish before you “kick the bucket.”

The term “bucket list” was popularized by a 2008 movie with that name. It was a comedic drama about two terminally ill men who go on a world-wide trip with a wish list of things they wanted to do before they died.

I can identify. Probably you can also. If I were to die today, I have no regrets…a few wishes maybe, but nothing more. I have lived longer and better than I deserve.
There are some things I’d like to do for the first time and a few experiences I’d like to do again.

On this trip home, Charles Lester and I took a leisurely horse ride on his farm, just the two of us. We are four years apart in age and share memories of an impoverished, yet rich childhood.

I am glad there wasn’t a movie camera around when Charles struggled to heave me onto the saddle. My old knees don’t bend like they used to. We rode off into the sunset, laughing and talking about old times. The saddle slid sideways and I spent some of the time riding at a 45 degree angle.

Charles Lester and I are the oldest of the five siblings. I am labeled as the smartest. He is correctly labeled as the craziest.

Our parents never knew about the time he took me on a midnight ride when we were teenagers, not on horses, but on a high-powered motorcycle that belonged to his friend. I hung on for dear life as he sped the rainy streets. Helmets? No. I didn’t even have on shoes.

It took a while for me to forgive him for waking me up one night with a realistic, wiggly rubber snake the size of a python. He chased me throughout the house and out the back door. Fourteen-year-olds don’t usually have heart attacks, but I think I had one then.

I probably had another one the moon-lit night Charles drug me along on a frog gigging adventure through dark Mississippi swamps full of wiggly things that don’t croak.

None of the above is on my bucket list. Instead, they are on my unforgettable “never to do again” list.

Most folks, who have bucket lists either mentally or literally, would divide their unfinished dreams into categories. I would have one for travel. It would be nice to return to Bermuda where Buddy and I own property.

When we honeymooned there in 1965, we buried a long-necked coke bottle in the shifting sand. We have often wondered if it stayed on the island or drifted to Neverland. If you find such a bottle with a note pledging ever-lasting love, please return it to the senders.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-10-09T12:47:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #407
Nancy White Kelly

Go to any town, big or small, and it appears that every business is either buying gold or giving flu shots. I got a phone call from my neighborhood grocery store reminding me that flu shots are available on aisle number one.

An appointment with my cancer doctor was only two days away so I decided to wait for him to give that shot to me. After battling serious cancer off and on since the mid-80’s, I still must regularly check-in for claustrophobic CAT exams, vampirish blood work, and radiating bone scans.

You would think I’d be used to all those tests by now. If anything, I dread these supposedly routine visits more than ever. You just never know when cancer, with a renewed vengeance, will again rear its ugly head ready to race to the finish line. I don’t fear death; I just dread the journey.

Thankfully I have been stable for many months. Bad memories linger. On a treatment day about three years ago, my doctor came into the chemotherapy room, gave me a darting glance, and hurriedly held an impromptu meeting with all the available nurses. Little did I suspect they were talking about me. Within an hour I was in a hospital bed and near death’s door with total kidney failure. Miraculously I recovered and was released from the chains of dialysis in less than six months.
Every time my oncologist sees me now, he seems puzzled. How could somebody with Stage 4 cancer survive two major bouts with the big C which included a stint with hospice? He quizzes me about health food I might be taking.

“Zip, zero, nada.”

Without fail, my smiling doctor points a finger toward heaven. In the early days I tried every herb and radical diet imaginable. During the intervening years I have taken every type chemo for my type cancer available. I have had so much radiation to my spine that I glow at night like a Halloween skeleton.

More than a Living Lady, I am a thriving lady. My oncologist sees so much illness and death that he is quick to tell me that I am a rare bright spot in his practice. He sees few long-term metastatic breast cancer survivors, especially after the disease has coursed its way through bones and lungs. It is as if my cancer has stopped in its tracks. The title of this column should be Journal of a Living Miracle.

The word “stable” is a wonderful word when you are in this battle. I don’t know why God chooses to prolong one life and not another. I am not more special or deserving than others who have fought or are fighting this tough opponent.

Today my doctor wanted me to have a flu shot. No problem.

A teen-age nursing assistant, obviously in training, appeared with a syringe. I don’t know who was more intimidated, the shot giver or the shot “givee.” My hope was that I wasn’t her first patient ever.

The young girl dabbed some alcohol on my upper arm and pieced the skin with the needle, not with a quick jab, but with a slow methodical push. It made me wish I had taken my grocer up with his offer on aisle number one.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-09-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #406

Nancy White Kelly

I never met him personally, but a man named Peter once said, “Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee.” After making this statement, a lame man was healed and walked again.

While this quote is from the Bible and not the mantra of our Ye Old Coin Shop, we can relate. Buying and selling gold and silver as well as numismatic coins and supplies is how Buddy and I supplement our retirement income. What we sell as merchants is simply store stock to us.

In the course of a month, especially in the winter, we meet people in dire circumstances who need kindness in word and deed. Like Peter, we try to be aware of those who are sick or hungry and respond accordingly.

There has been quite frenzy in the precious metals market lately and not much confidence in the paper dollar. The United States can legally print as much money as it likes whenever it wants; if we citizens did that, we’d be serving time in a federal prison.

I believe there is a huge difference between profit and greed. Profit is not a profane word. Greed, however, on my morality scale is worse than profanity. I have met my share of greedy numismatists. The worst ones are those who prey on the desperately poor or widows.

Recently I had occasion to witness a transaction between an elderly lady and a despicable dealer at a coin show. I am not a “goody two-shoes.” I am wearing white sandals today and it is after Labor Day. However, I can be quite good with a verbal boot.

Visiting a coin show in a nearby city, I observed an older lady struggling to carry a heavy bag. She stood at the entrance to the large amphitheater-like center and seemed over-whelmed by the enormous crowd and scores of coin dealers lined up a dozen rows. She was obviously unaccustomed to a bourse area and stood still for several minutes, trying to determine where to start.

Finally the frail lady mounted the courage to engage conversation with a dealer near the front. Within moments she spilled out the contents of her sack onto his table. I quickly recognized some old gold coins and hundreds of silver coins referred to in the trade as junk silver. These are coins minted before 1965 which contain 90% silver.

I edged closer as if the next in line. The calculator in my head easily valued the cache as worth at least $3000. I listened as the man ran his hands through the coins as if they were truly junk. He commented about their circulated condition and low value, not “worthy of serious collecting.”

True, the silver coins weren’t in fine or newly minted condition, but with silver at near $40 an ounce, this wasn’t chunk change. The old gold coins did have numismatic value, but he down-played their significance as well.

“Nobody is collecting Gaudens anymore,” he said. My jaw dropped in disbelief.

The little woman asked what he thought they would be worth. He shrugged his shoulder and said unenthusiastically, “I’ll give you a four hundred for the whole lot.”

She mulled the offer. I was caught in a dilemma. In the coin trading world, it is considered unethical for a dealer to disrupt another dealer while in a transaction with a customer. In fact, it is an infraction of the ethical code of conduct. Yet, my personal world doesn’t stand for robbing the vulnerable.

I interrupted before she responded to the dealer. “That sure is a fine collection of coins you have there, Mam. You must have been collecting for years.”

The dealer frown turned into a scowl. The soft-spoken lady shook her head and said that her recently deceased husband had been the collector.

“I don’t know nothing about coins,” she continued, “but figured they might be worth enough to pay a past-due utility bill.”

The squinty-eyed dealer stood silent.

“Mam,” I said with a wink. “I do know something about coins and think you should check around with several dealers before accepting your first offer.”

“Sure,” the dealer said politely while casting a sinister eye in my direction.
The lady thanked me for the advice and turned back to the dealer.

“I think I will ask some others first,” she said as she gathered her coins from the dealer’s table. She thanked me and I turned away only to hear the dealer offer her an additional fifty dollars.

What the outcome was I can’t say. I breached professional etiquette and could have been booted from the show had I been there as a dealer.

Like Peter, “Silver and gold” had I none that day, but what advice I had, I gave. Hopefully she walked away.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-09-10T17:48:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #405

Nancy White Kelly

Never say never. Three years ago Buddy and I had an enormous yard sale. It was a daunting task gathering all of that stuff, pricing it, and dealing with obnoxious customers who weren’t happy unless the item was a quarter. I publically proclaimed that we would never again have a yard sale, garage sale, porch sale, tag sale or anything similar for the rest of our lives. I broke my word. We had a yard sale last Friday and Saturday.

The singing fish was the first item designated for disposal before procrastination set in. Buddy and I consistently postponed the sale for the slightest of reasons. Neither of us was eager to hassle and haggle.

For six months we moved more and more stuff to the porch. When the singing fish suddenly changed his song from “Take me to the River” to “Fish or cut bait,” we decided it was time for the sale.

Buddy and I waited until nearly dark to put out the yard sale signs on Thursday evening. There was a car in our driveway before we made it home. I hadn’t even had my first cup of coffee the next morning before there was a banging on the door. I looked at the clock. Good grief, Charlie Brown. It wasn’t even seven o’clock.

The early bird shopper asked Buddy if we had any cast iron for sale. It was good for her that we didn’t. She might have been crowned with a skillet for starting our day so abruptly.

Somehow this family of two has accumulated more junk in thirty-six months than we did before the last sale. For weeks we shifted unwanted items to our narrow, yet long front porch. Ironically, many of the sale items waiting to be bought had been purchased at somebody else’s yard sale.

For all our effort we collected a total of $150. It took three pick-up truck loads to deliver the remainders to local thrift stores. In his haste, Buddy accidentally took our new $80 dog crate along with the left-overs. It was on the porch, under a table, and clearly labeled “Not for sale.” What happened to the sign, I don’t know. What happened to Buddy? I plead the fifth.

When I returned to the store to reclaim the new dog cage, it was already sold. So, bottom line, we made $70 for the six months and two days if you don’t count the truck gas and the celebration meal we had over our successful yard sale.

2011-08-28T15:16:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #404

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy doesn’t talk to me until after ten in the morning. He tells folks that until then I am a few French fries short of a Happy Meal. It’s true. I need a strong cup of coffee and a couple of hours before being mentally sharper than a basketball.

My guess is that this ole body of mine is getting revenge. For years I had to be first at the school to unlock the big steel doors for the teachers. It didn’t matter if it were cold, hot, rainy, snowy or that I was foggy.

Thankfully God doesn’t depend on my morning speed. He knows that in spite of my slow start, I try to get all my daily tasks done before midnight. In fact, God knows all about me. You, too. Read about it in Jeremiah 1:5, “Before I formed thee in the womb, I knew thee.”

When you were a child, did you ever lie on the ground, stare at the clouds and ponder life’s big questions? Recently a friend emailed me a science commentary that stirred my fuzzy brain and strengthened my faith as well.

Mathematics was never my strong suite, but the study made me wonder. If calculable, what would God’s I.Q.be? Hypothetically, maybe something like 777 to the 7 millionth power into infinity.

We will never know. Isaiah 55:8 says, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD “

Have you ever seen a potato bug? They hatch in 7 days. Buddy and I used to raise cockatiels, parakeets and even canaries. Canary eggs hatch in 14 days. We now have hens. Those eggs hatch in 21 days.

Notice the pattern. Ducks hatch in 28 days. Parrot eggs hatch in 42 days. We have raised them all. What do these eggs and others have in common? They all are divisible by seven, the number of days in a week.

I was never was a whiz at physics or geometry, but do remember what a fulcrum is. The horse rises from the ground on its two front legs first. A cow rises from the ground with its two hind legs first. In the wisdom of God, he gave the quadrupled elephant four legs (fulcrums) that all bend forward. This massive animal couldn’t rise from the ground on just two.

Walk in the garden and notice more of God’s perfect handiwork. Observe a watermelon and its stripes. Each watermelon has an even number of stripes on the rind. Open an orange and there is an even number of segments.

Yesterday I shucked a couple of ears of my generous neighbor’s corn. Each ear of corn had an even number of rows. After a short pass through boiling water, Buddy and I enjoyed every kernel. Thank you, God, for perfect summer corn.
Though we don’t grow wheat in the mountains, observe a stalk when traveling west. Again, you will notice an even number of grains.

Okay, so maybe you don’t travel by wagon train any longer. Surely you go to the grocery store. Look at a bunch of those yellow bananas on the produce aisle. Starting on the lowest row of the banana bunch, you will count an even number. Each row decreases by one. There is the pattern. One row has an even number and the next an odd.

The storms on the East coast have garnered our attention lately. Did you know that those waves of the sea roll on shore at a count of 26 to the minute no matter what the weather?

Some dear friends live on Chatuge Lake, host fabulous fish fries, and maintain a beautiful yard even in their late sunset years. A famous botanist named Linnaeus said that if he had a conservatory containing the right type of soil, moisture and temperature, he could tell the time of day or night by the blossoms that were open and those that were closed. Our friends don’t need a clock.

I may not have the brains or wit of a tit-mouse in the early morning hours, but I don’t worry. My omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God neither sleeps nor slumbers.
That insurance is guaranteed non-cancellable! I am in good hands with the Almighty.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-08-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #403

The serious column I wrote last brought more response from Sentinel readers than any other I have written in the last twelve years. Even today while breakfasting with Buddy at McDonald’s, I was approached by a man who commented on its bold truthfulness. If missed, you can read it at www.thelivinglady.blogspot.com, column 402.

It has been a struggle these last few days to decide whether to continue writing now as a serious pundit or return to a sometimes humorous style of reporting daily living. My feeling is that if a survey were taken, most would feel that there is already an abundance of pundits in the media and few who try to bring a smile. Regardless of opinion, I must today write about water- boarding and murder.

Besides our rude rooster who announces morning, Buddy and I have three female chickens. Their names are Henney, Penney, and a pet hen I used to call “Not Inney.”
Not Inney finally got a name change when she too began giving us an egg a day. We looked forward to baby chicks during the early summer, but none of the hens cared a cluck about sitting. In desperation, I dug out our ancient incubator. The instructions were lost long ago, so I had to guess at the temperature and humidity settings.

Son Charlie and I both have new IPads with cameras, so grandson Micah was able to watch the hatching of Spunky#1 in real time. He was excited because the first chick born was promised to him.

Unfortunately, out of the dozen eggs, only two chicks hatched. Spunky was first. The other one died within an hour of hatching. From my former hobby of raising cockatiels, I learned how to hand-feed birds with a syringe or dropper. I did this quite successfully with over a hundred cockatiel chicks and no fatalities. With hand-raised, exotic birds, you can push food or water down the side of their throats, filling their crops, until they are able to eat on their own. It seemed logical to me that what was good for the cockatiels would be equally good for a Rhode Island Red baby chicken.

At first I placed a drop of water on baby Spunky’s beak, allowing the water to drop into her gaping beak. This was obviously an unwanted hydration attempt. She vigorously shook each drop off the edge of her beak. Yet, her annoyingly chirps continued non-stop.

Figuring she had to be hungry and thirsty, I took the syringe full of water and tried again. Spunky still wanted no part of it. I pushed the resistant plunger with a tad more pressure. All at once the water gushed down.

Surprisingly Spunky relaxed. She rested perfectly still in my hand. My elation lasted just seconds when it became obvious that the water had not gone into Spunky’s belly but into her windpipe. Spunky was dead. I had accidentally water-boarded her.

Spunky was guilty of nothing. I was guilty of second-degree murder. The least I could do was to attempt artificial respiration. My thumb pressed rhythmically and gently on her breast. It was to no avail. Within minutes she was cold and stiff. I was sweaty and nauseous.

Determined to get it right, I gathered another dozen eggs and have waited patiently for 21 days. Yesterday, Spunky #2 hatched. After her fuzzy exterior dried in the incubator, I placed her in a make-shift brooder and sprinkled tiny grains of mash on the floor along with a jar lid of water. Minutes ago, a sibling hatched and will soon join Spunky.

If all goes well, maybe I have been redeemed.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-07-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #402

Nancy White Kelly

The Journal of a Living Lady started out as commentary of my journey with serious metastatic cancer. Though currently stable, it is a battle I am still fighting. My body has had all the recommended radiation and chemotherapy that exists. The only reason I am still alive is that God still has purpose for my life.

Many years ago, during the Vietnam War, I wrote a weekly column for another paper. It wasn’t at all like this column. It was a personal analysis of American problems and especially the war.

I was and am no authority on warfare, economics or injustices, but the column gained a following. One of the essays won a top journalism award from the Freedom Foundation at Valley Forge. I appeared on television to receive a very nice medallion which is stored away somewhere.

Why do I tell you this? To garner a little credibility for what I am about to write.
In the last three decades I have purposely avoided writing negatively about the state of our nation. As a diversion to the depressing headlines and national pundits, I try to use light humor to depict everyday life of an almost ordinary family

But, today, I want to take this newspaper pulpit once and point out that which is happening before our eyes. What the government says and what I see are entirely different.

No doubt you have noticed the escalating prices of groceries and gas. Our waffles, pop tarts, cereal, and pasta have lost weight? So have baby food, potato chips and candy.

My brand of coffee has risen 22% just this year. Beans, eggs, onions and milk have risen 18%. The jar of peanut butter I normally buy has shrunk 9%. Fresh fruits and vegetables have gone up 18% as well as meat.

Yet, our government denies inflation or minimalizes it at 2-3%. In reality, it is more like 9.6%. At that rate, if you had $100,000 today, lucky you, in ten years you would have $39,985 remaining.

The Consumer Price Index, which is the U.S. measure of inflation, began disguising the deceitful statistics by no longer including food and energy in its calculations. How can you dismiss gas and food in the cost of living? Stay home and eat nothing?
With a little fluctuation, gas has risen $1.19 in seven months. If this escalation remains the norm, we can expect to see $7 a gallon in the not so distant future.
In the numismatic business, gold has reached its all-time high. Why? Because nobody has confidence in the paper dollar any longer.

When I was in Israel last year, one vendor didn’t want my American dollars. The day is coming when our paper money will no longer be the premier currency of the world. That is one reason people are flocking to precious metals for investment. Gold and silver will always be accepted anywhere in the world.

Did you know that our government has long been able to print paper money anytime it wants? What a double standard. If we individual taxpayers printed money anytime we needed it, we’d be in jail. Our government can do it at will and does. We are no longer on a gold standard. There is nothing to back up our currency but faith in the U.S.

Uncle Sam needs to know that when it comes to faith, my faith is exclusively in God in heaven and not the czars with their cigars blowing smoke in Washington.
If you study the economic history of the Philippines, Turkey, Taiwan, Austria, Brazil, Russia, Japan, Hungary, Argentina, Germany and Greece and you will see that they all succumbed to the economic travesty America is parading.

I don’t like to present problems without solutions. Space does not allow me to write the sensible ideas that I believe would get us on the right track, but number one would be a religious and consequently a moral reversal from the Capitol to Main Street. That wouldn’t solve our current financial dilemma, but it sure would be start to the revival of the America I used to know.

Economically, I say take care of America first. Except for legitimate humanitarian needs, bring our resources back home. Who in debt gives away money it doesn’t have, especially to those that despise us?

Give this Granny a gun and I’ll gladly engage anyone who dares to attack our land of the free and home of the brave. I’d rather die in battle than linger on in stupidity.
There is no humor in this column. Just the facts. Just the cold, hard facts.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-07-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #401

Nancy White Kelly

It’s that time again. The crops are coming in.

Buddy and I learned many years ago that we need to lock our car at church. Once a well-meaning friend loaded up our back floor board with vine ripe tomatoes and forgot to tell us. It took nearly a year before the family car quit smelling like home-made vegetable soup. As for fresh tomatoes I just don’t like them. Never have and never will. When the slimy innards of tomatoes enter my eye-gate, my esophogate reacts.

The only way I’ll eat summer tomatoes is if they are fried. No matter what, squirrel or squash, if you flour it, add a little salt, fry it in hot oil, the whatever inside morphs into a southern delicacy that tastes so GOOD.

For the record, I don’t eat citrus fruit either. I am allergic to it and break out in hives. I never liked citrus anyway. Maybe it is the texture or the smell.
Buddy used to make fun of my food finickiness. After he saw that documentary about human fluids and contaminating germs on lemon rinds, he too requests his tea or water without that yellow wedge.

The family car was jokingly sabotaged one other time with cantaloupe. Nothing in my personal repertoire of food smells worse. Cantaloupe is in a category by itself. Occasionally Buddy buys one for himself, but keeps it in the shop. I know because I see the rinds in the chicken yard. Is that love or what?

Buddy will eat about anything. He likes liver and onions. I don’t. He has two friends who like it too. Their wives don’t care to cook it at home either so they occasionally go out for a man’s lunch out.

One delight Buddy and I do share is banana pudding. That is my secret weapon when I want to buy something expensive or have really messed up.

We both have valid private pilot licenses obtained years ago. Imagine calling your husband and telling him you just ran the airplane into a telephone pole? I admit to not being good at parking.

Buddy was an aircraft mechanic by trade and it was just a tiny dent in the wing. Nevertheless, I made so much banana pudding for a pardon that I called him Chiquita and bought him a monkey. Really.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-07-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #400

Nancy White Kelly

Finally, after filing for an extension, our taxes are done and in the mail. Keeping records for a coin business is tedious. Uncle Sam wants to know how you acquired each numismatic item, when it was bought, what you paid for it and, if sold, how much it brought. Try cataloging thousands of coins, some as small as a penny, and others as large as a British crown.

Quite often I don’t know how I acquired a certain coin as it is common in the antique and numismatic business to purchase a large number of items in a bulk sale. More often than not, these coins were formerly owned by somebody’s deceased relative and the seller doesn’t have any idea how it came into their dear departed’s possession.

Identifying a single coin, especially an obscure world coin, takes hours of research. It is discouraging to find that the piece of metal is worth less than a U.S. dollar. Then try to find somebody who would like to buy a schilling or a Grecian drachma.

Time is a commodity and there is never enough of it. I am always attending to the tyranny of the urgent. In the meanwhile, store receipts for buying and selling pile higher and higher.

The fear of fines or worse, prison, eventually forces me to sit down and sort it all out. Poor Buddy has learned to tread lightly around me during this stressful time. Every year I promise myself I will stay current with my bookkeeping and each year I fail. I am sorry to disillusion you. The Living Lady is not an entity of perfection.
Back in the 70’s it was required that I take a vocational aptitude test for my new job as a state Head Start Administrator. This was during the early days of Affirmative Action. For the first time, my superior was a nice, but inexperienced young black man also new to his position. He had to take the test too.
After the scores were returned, he suggested we compare our results. He probably regretted it, but even he laughed at what the test said about his aptitudes. Among other quasi-titles, he showed high ability for manual labor and would excel as a “trash collector.” I chuckled too at my chart. It stated that I would be a strong candidate for the astronaut program.

Apparently the test had a smidgen of validity. My report also stated that I was particularly suited for educational administration which turned out to be true. I was a school principal/administrator for a large portion of my professional life. I enjoyed the classroom tremendously, but was continually solicited for chief honcho positions. One of my evaluations said that my strength is being able to see the big picture, break the job down to manageable tasks and assign them to responsible people. How hard can it be to delegate? Anybody in a suit can do it.
Ask me about management styles and I can talk hours about what I have learned. My leadership style changed significantly over the years. At first my Type A personality destined me to be an authoritarian driver with high expectations of those around me. And, yes, it is lonely at the top.

With each school change, I mellowed. At the end of my administrative career, I think I could better be described as a team builder and cheer leader. I surely hope so.
While both leadership styles got the job done, I wish I had exhibited more confidence in those around me early-on. They were most capable, but I was weak on trust. Now, many years older and hopefully much wiser, I know that an enthusiastic team, with admirable goals, can accomplish so much more than one who leads alone.
So why was I adept at running schools, but am now woefully lacking in self-discipline? Keeping business records organized and reports filed in a timely manner isn’t that difficult. The answer is simple. I have nobody to delegate the task to.
It’s just me now, accountable to and motivated by the Infernal Revenue Service. Thankfully I have a husband and a dog who still love me during and after tax season. Now that the taxes are done, Buddy is ready to hang a sign: Beware: Wife is experiencing taxing PMS…Post Mortem Syndrome. Properly interpreted, that means I am taking a long, over-due nap.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-06-11T16:47:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #399

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy and I always welcome the sight of our home when we return from a vacation. As usual, our house was still standing. Fire didn’t burn it down. Tornadoes didn’t blow it away. Thieves didn’t break in and steal. We continue to have a bed to sleep in plus all our worldly goods. Thank you, Lord.

Unfortunately, the grass took advantage and grew excessively in our absence. Buddy immediately brought in the luggage, donned his yard clothes, and headed for the lawn mower. I could hear the drone of the engine in the background while listening to the back-log of voice mail. I always hope there is no bad news to hear. This day there was. Advanced forward:

This morning I attended the graveside service of a little lady I met almost four years ago. She and her husband, a retired colonel, dropped by the coin shop one cold afternoon. He was 93. She was 87. They drove an old van with slick tires. For whatever reason, it was obvious they needed money.

The old couple won my heart immediately. He clutched a small brown paper sack hoping to sell its meager contents. Their naivety and lack of numismatic knowledge would have made them a prime target for an unscrupulous coin dealer. Buddy can confirm that I have many faults, but preying on the elderly isn’t one of them.

The wife patted her husband’s cold hand while I went through the paper sacks. Unfortunately their cache didn’t have much value. It contained several foreign coins as well as modern replicas of U.S. coinage. Most of these copies are highly advertised, thinly plated, seriously over-priced, pretty pieces of junk.

The couple was of more interest to me than their two sacks of nearly worthless coins. They lived alone, far from relatives, on top of a near-by mountain. Their main source of heat was firewood which they usually cut themselves. A single space heater warmed the bedroom. I wondered how they managed. He was on a walker and she on a cane. Neither could walk appreciably well. The wife had just begun driving again after recuperating from a broken hip.

While the three of us were inside the shop talking, Buddy was outside washing their van windows making sure the old tires had enough air. We both could see the situation for what it was: two old people trying to survive in an awful economy. I made them an overly generous offer for the contents of their two sacks which they quickly accepted.

Afterwards, the wife lovingly assisted her husband into the van. I held my breath, fearful that they might fall. They had their routine down pat. The wife shoved the man’s uncooperative right leg inside the van. Then, with all the heave she could muster, she slammed the heavy door shut. The wife reclaimed her cane, gave me a grateful smile, and asked for a hug. I gave her the biggest one I had.

She called me a time or two, just wanting to chat. She finally agreed that her husband needed to be in a 24/7 care home. After the transition, I called her often.
Once, after several unsuccessful attempts to reach her by phone, I contacted the nursing home seeking information. It was then that I learned the husband had passed and that the Mrs. was now a patient there.

With no family anywhere near and the state in charge of her care, I unofficially adopted her and introduced her to the Sunday School class I was teaching. Last October we threw her a big 91st birthday party at a local restaurant. The picture I took of her smiling broadly was displayed at the burial today.

Her mind was exceptionally sharp. Her hearing too. She enjoyed talking about current events as well as old times. On my last visit, just before Buddy and I left for vacation, we talked at length about heaven. This was a continuation of our on-going conversation about life and death. She was ready for the journey that we all must take someday. Death takes no holiday, but holds no prisoners.

Good-bye for now, sweet Alma. I am as diminished by your passing as I was enriched by your presence

2011-05-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #398

Nancy White Kelly

As you read this, Buddy and I are preparing to go to Panama City for a few days. The beach beacons us and we are vicariously waving back.

Tori’s parents have graciously invited us to spend time with them during their condo week. They assure us there is plenty of room for the extended family. Two of their grandkids are also our grandkids so it is a win-win for us all.

There is always much to do before vacationing. In our case, we must secure the coin shop and remove valuables to an off-site location. Officers from the Sheriff’s department will be routinely checking the property. Our wonderful neighbors will watch our home. Arrangements must still be made for the care of our pets, mail and newspapers.

Another task is finding summer clothes suitable for the stifling Florida heat. I open the closet with trepidation, hoping that it hasn’t been besieged by calories.
Yes, calories: those little monsters that get into your wardrobe at night and sew your clothes tighter. Several times during adulthood, my closet has been infested with those conniving, clothing critters.

Today I am fortunate. My bathing suit not only fits, but is a bit baggy. Score two hits for the Living Lady, one for the Big C known as cancer and the other for those menacing, little closet c’s.

When I was in the worst phase of cancer treatment, just before entering hospice, I had this unexplainable, yet persistent draw to the ocean. My Buddy cheerfully made the journey with me three times.

What is it about the ocean that calms the soul? For me, it is the rhythmic waves thumping the sandy shore. It is a sense of vast colossal wetness. It is a mysterious, unfathomable global entity filled with secrets of kings and merchants.

I hear those mighty waves calling my name. Sayonara, my world-wide, reader friends. Au revoir. وداعا,. Wiedersehenl. Adios.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-05-08T14:14:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #397

Nancy White Kelly

It’s Mother’s Day as I write this. My grown boys have expressed their love in a variety of ways and the grand kids too. I wish my mother was still alive so I could tell her one more time how much she meant to me.

Married at sixteen, Mama never worked a day for pay. She was a full-time homemaker, known for her spunk and unintended humor.

She was an excellent seamstress and a wonderful cook. She could equally dish out a tongue-lashing, especially to anybody who dared to slight any of her five biddies. That earned her the affectionate nickname, “Henzilla” and sibling security that she was always in our corner.

Mama died of congestive heart failure. During my last conversation with her, she strained to say something important. In a weakened voice, almost a whisper, she apologized for not having anything to leave us children as an inheritance.
I am not an easy crier, but I sobbed when she said that. I assured her that no amount of money, property or “stuff” could replace the gift she gave to her children: unconditional love. In a sense, she gave her life for her husband and off-spring. She was a mother worthy to be praised.

I never truly appreciated all my Mama did until I became a wife and mother myself. Over several decades, I became a foster mom to twelve children, an adoptive mother to one boy, and finally a birth mom to a late-in-life miracle son. Buddy’s mother set a good example. Today I am also a “mother-in-law,” blessed with a good relationship with both wives.

As another Mother’s Day is closing, I think of all the wisdom my mother passed to me. These words were probably were heard by you too:
Money does not grow on trees.

Play with fire and you’ll get burned.

Always change your underwear; you never know when you may be in a wreck.

When you have your own house, then you can make the rules!

Don't cross your eyes or they will freeze in that position.

If everyone jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?

Friends of a feather flock together.

And finally, close that door! Were you born in a barn?

A late Happy Mother’s Day to all you ladies who mothered or mentored a child. You did a good thing.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-04-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #396
Nancy White Kelly

If I hadn’t heard it myself, I would have thought Buddy was growing deafer by the day. I had just settled into the den recliner for my morning cup of coffee when suddenly there was extremely loud commentary coming from the bedroom or kitchen. I waited, expecting Buddy to quickly turn down the sound on the television. We are having a hard time getting used to the confusing buttons on the remote of our new set. Shortly the indistinguishable racket stopped and Buddy popped into the den with a grin.

“What kind of joke was that?” he asked.

Puzzled, I scrunched my forehead.

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you put into the drawer?”

“Nothing,” I replied, wondering if he was losing his mind as well as his hearing.
“That talking gadget,” he explained.

Still confused, I pressed for intelligent clarification.

“You weren’t playing a joke?” he asked.

“No. What were you doing with the T.V.?”

“Nothing, “he replied. “I opened the knife drawer and all this talking started. Loud talking.”

“I know. I heard it too?”

Buddy went on to explain that when he opened the silverware drawer, the talking started. He slammed it shut and the talking stopped. Curious, he opened the drawer again and the fast-talking began blaring again like an excited game announcer.
I shook my head. Yes, I had heard it myself. Our only guess is that the knives and strainer in the drawer picked up some random radio signal from somewhere in the world. We laughed and it was the talk of the day.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I had not heard it myself.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-04-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #395
Nancy White Kelly

April Fool’s Day passed without much notice this year. In former times, I have been both the victim and perpetrator of April Fool jokes.

Looking back, the most memorable prank could have landed me in jail for mail tampering or in prison for impersonating an officer. The back-firing joke could also have made me a young widow. I am certain that Buddy’s tachycardia began that day. Eventually I was forgiven, but the hoax has never been forgotten.

To avoid the draft, seventeen-year-old Buddy joined the Navy during the Korean War. He figured his odds of surviving were better on water than on land. He spent four years on a navy Destroyer. Withstanding horrendous temperatures, Buddy’s job was to convert sea water to potable H2O.

When the time finally arrived for his discharge, Buddy’s superior officer tried unsuccessfully to get him to extend his tour. All my home-sick, Mississippi sailor wanted was to go home.

Buddy had sent money home monthly for his parents to save for his education. He dreamed of being a pilot. Unfortunately Buddy’s father spent all that money. Times were tough in Mississippi. A few weeks later, with a few dollars and a revived spirit, Buddy enrolled in the aircraft mechanics program at Emory Riddle School of Aviation in Miami. He put himself through by washing dishes.

After graduation and a brief stint with Pan American, Eastern Airlines transferred Buddy to Memphis. He met me in church and the rest is history.
Buddy’s mother had a great sense of humor and taught Sunday school most of her life. We connected. One April Fool’s Day I called home while she was visiting. Usually calm, Mama Kelly skipped the small talk.

“Nancy, did you by any chance send Buddy a notice from the United States Navy?” I laughed and admitted my guilt. Obviously my meticulously prepared mail had arrived right on April Fool’s Day.

Mother Kelly said Buddy tore open the official-looking letter, complete with his DD2-14 number, and read the notice:”We regret to inform you that an audit of your personnel file indicates that you have six months remaining to serve. Please report…”

Buddy bit. Oh, how he bit. While I was explaining my prank to his mother, Buddy was on a neighbor’s phone calling the Pentagon. Mother Kelly dropped the phone and rushed over to stop Buddy from saying or doing no telling what.

One thing I am certain of: While genuinely patriotic, Buddy would never return to the Navy, come hell, high water or a brigade of four-star generals.
April Fool’s Day has quietly come and gone again. It’s a good thing…a very good thing.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-03-27T14:47:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #394
Nancy White Kelly

It’s not fair. Buddy wakes up looking as good in the morning as when he went to bed. Not me. I deteriorate during the night. For the first two hours of the day I could be mistaken for the walking dead. With the help of Buddy-made coffee, I gradually morph from a silent, lethargic carcass to a reasonably pleasant human being.

During the olden days I was the one to open up the school at 7:00, dragging along sleepy-head youngsters who wished their mother wasn’t the principal. One of them is now a teacher himself. What goes around comes around. Tick tock. Tick tock. Before long, his two young boys will also begrudge having to be at school long before their classmates.

Being all grown up, and then some, I have so many unanswered questions, especially related to time. Like, why is the third hand on a watch called the second hand?
Who was the jerk who made us change our clocks twice a year? Why not leave time and seasons just like God planned it? That begs another question: Why do we say that it is “after dark” when it is really “after light”? And, do we really need a Time magazine?

Speaking of the written word, I detest the slang that invades our modern vocabulary. One example of this verbal butchery is the work “suck.” As a child, if I didn’t cry when I got a shot at the doctor’s office, I got a sucker. It was good until the very last suck. Now, if something sucks, that means it is bad. So why is it good that the vacuum cleaner sucks? Esfusication, pure and simple.

They say that love is blind. If so, why is Victoria’s Secret store so popular?

Men keep their last name for life. My surname changed April 24, 1965. Nancy Lee White became Nancy White Kelly. But at my age I am not complaining. It is spring, 2011, and Buddy loves me just as much in the morning as he does at night.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-03-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #393

Nancy White Kelly

I write this column while being ordered to three days of bed rest. Weird things happen to my body, probably related to my battle with cancer. For those who are new to this column, I am a cancer survivor. The first brush with breast cancer occurred in the mid eighties. Following surgery and chemotherapy, I passed the much bally-hoed five year milestone.

Twelve years later, just as our son graduated from high school, the cancer metastasized to lungs and bone, including the spine. I have now consumed all the standard chemotherapies, plus the beams of radiation three times. I spent a while in hospice, but never gave in or up.

This column began in the late nineties as the Journal of a Dying Lady. At the insistence of my friends, the title changed to Journal of a Living Lady which is now a book. A brief stint on Oprah brought me notoriety beyond the local community.
Dealing with this disease has been a roller coaster ride, but I am grateful to have been stable for a couple of years. Stable is a very good word in the cancer world.
Cancer changed my life. My faith sustained me and still does. What once began as a sincere request to the Almighty to allow me live to see Charlie, then in kindergarten, graduate from high school brought me far more than I prayed for. A life verse I chose as a teenager bore true: “CALL UPON ME AND I WILL ANSWER THEE AND SHOW THEE GREAT AND MIGHTY THING WHICH THOU KNOWEST NOT.” Jeremiah 33:3.

Charlie, now a school teacher, graduated from college, married a wonderful girl, and has given us two adorable grandsons: Micah, age 6, and Noah, soon to be 4.

So why am I confined to bed? One word. Pain. While I am generally pain tolerant, this has been a 12 on a scale of 10. I woke up yesterday from a normal night’s rest to find myself in excruciating pain when I took my first step. I had not injured myself in anyway the day before. Now my right foot felt like an elephant had stomped on it. There was just no explanation.

Buddy, the most compassionate nurse a wife could hope for, tried to help. He brought hot water to soak the foot. He dashed to the drugstore for an elastic bandage which he lovingly wrapped. Still, as the day wore on, so did the pain which progressed to other parts of the same foot. Amidst declining protest, Buddy brought crutches from the garage and assisted me to the car. Something wasn’t right. Could it be a blood clot? Spontaneous fracture? Gout? Or tumors pressing nerves?

An unexpected push on the foot by the ER doctor elicited a loud scream. I apologized. How childish, but it hurt. The doctor ordered x-rays and blood tests. He returned almost an hour later shaking his head. This pain was as baffling to him as to me.

A similar incident happened a couple of months ago with alternating shoulders. The oncologist chalked it up to a new (and expensive) anti-cancer pill that I was taking. I discovered that severe joint pain was the top side effect. After stopping that pill, the pain eventually abated. However, this time a pill couldn’t be blamed. So what is causing such pain?

My oncologist doesn’t know. My general M.D. doesn’t know. The ER doctor doesn’t know. Where do I go from here? After a shot of Decadron, the physician gave the typical advice. I had already taken my aspirin for the day. His advice: “Go to bed and call if it isn’t better by Monday.”

Can’t wait to see the bill.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-02-27T15:53:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #392

Nancy White Kelly

My life has been an adventure. Easily bored and ready for new challenges, I amaze myself at the places I land and why. Recently I received a request from the Chamber of Commerce to be the resident numismatic scholar for a week-end antique road shop in Greenville. Someone from our local coin club had recommended me.

I was delighted to be invited. Meals, lodging and even a paycheck made this gig appear more like an all-expense paid mini-vacation for Buddy and me.

Buddy’s mockingly gruff pretense, often repeated to our friends, is that he must accompany me on these trips to protect me from robbers, dirty old men, and myself.

Reality is that he is gets anxious about being alone. Buddy is a people person who is not very good company to himself. Whatever the real reason, I need his help and it is a win-win situation for us both. I get a body-guard who loves me. For three days straight. He gets uninterrupted companionship with his wedded wife.

Silly me just assumed the antique show was in Greenville, South Carolina, which is only a half-day drive from our home. How surprised I was to see TN in the address of the brochure. Even though I am a native Tennessean, I had never heard of the town.
Greenville, TN was difficult to find on our old map which was relegated to our library shelf long ago. With GPS, it is seldom used. With internet research I discovered there were 30 towns in the United States named Greenville.

To my rescue came Buddy, once a private pilot, who still knows how to read hieroglyphics on maps. He found the tiny speck called G’ville. (Okay, I’m a private pilot too, but I like for my man to feel needed and superior.)

Greenville seemed an unlikely location for what was expected to be a major event, especially since last year’s antique road show drew 5,000 attendees. The show was located in the two-level, high school gymnasium. The bottom floor was lined with at least a hundred tables laden with every type of antique and craft imaginable.
The appraisal floor was up-stairs where people lined up in the early a.m. to purchase five-dollar tickets for an appraisal. They were directed to the appropriate appraiser. The funniest sight was a little lady in a power wheel chair pulling a piece of furniture on a rope.

From eight in the morning until near dark, scores of people waited their turn at the appraisal tables. In brief spells between customers, I made my way through the crowd to see what others had brought. Just as expected, there were items of obvious value; others could have easily come from the local dump. Among the items were pottery, guns, jewelry, a plow and a few rusty bird cages.

Many left the show disappointed. Some elated. Others just enjoyed the camaraderie and had the philosophy, “Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.”

The most interesting thing that came through my line was an authentic CSA buckle that the owner, a middle-aged man, had personally unearthed in his backyard while digging a garden. Since the buckle was not related to coins, I referred him to another appraiser I had met. The owner left smiling. I would have too. It was well worth $1000 for its provenance and condition.

We are home now. Buddy is happy. I am happy. Now, you readers be happy and slap all the bad news you hear today.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-02-12T18:29:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #391

Nancy White Kelly

Charlie, Tori, Micah and Noah are on an early spring break at Disneyworld. By default, and because nobody else volunteered, Buddy and I are the caretakers of their two dogs: Patch and Snickers. It is a full house considering we also have our cat, Sam, Patch, our rowdy dachshund, Red, the roster and his harem, as well as a leopard gecko named Lizzie. To be truthful, Buddy requires more attention that all the animals together. He requires three feedings a day and refuses to eat dog chow or meal worms. That complicates matters.

The gecko was meant to be a surprise gift for Micah, our five-year-old grandson, Micah is high-functioning autistic. This neurological disorder is characterized by many symptoms including obsessiveness. When Micah was a toddler, he was fascinated with little cars. We thought nothing of it until he became highly frustrated if the Hot Wheels were not in perfect alignment. He kept his wheeled treasures grouped by color and size. At first we thought this was cute, a hint of organization skills that we hoped would continue into adulthood.

Micah’s enthrallment with little cars changed to inhabitants of nature. His first interest was dinosaurs which he could name by species and identify as carnivorous or herbivore. Then lizards became his focus.

I bought Micah a picture book of lizards. One wasn’t enough. Eventually he acquired a dozen or more books and reptile magazines. He became an amusing, walking encyclopedia of lizard facts and trivia.

For his birthday, Charlie and Tori bought ecstatic Micah a young bearded dragon that ate tiny crickets. Little Spike grew and grew and grew. It seemed that overnight Spike was longer than Micah’s arm.

One lizard wasn’t enough. Micah did extra chores to earn the money to buy a couple of smaller, less exciting lizards. They ate and pooped, but not much else. When Micah complained to me that the new lizards, actually newts, were quiet and boring, I made a secret trip to the pet store and bought Lizzie. She was a thin and tiny, no longer than my pinkie finger. My plan was to keep her until she was large enough to withstand handling by Micah and younger brother, Noah.

Lizzie first need was a glass cage with a screened top and a special heat lamp. Since she was fragile and would not eat on her own, I hand-fed her. With no role model, it took Lizzie several weeks to figure out that her tongue was an instrument to capture surprised crickets that no longer stayed around to be her playmates.
By winter it was time for Granny to surprise Micah with a friendly, healthy Lizzie. Unfortunately, I had failed to tell Charlie and Tori about my good intentions. Neither was thrilled. Tori had grown quite tired of being Spike’s daily custodian and Charlie was weary of the never-ending need for crickets by the dozen. Spike was now longer than Charlie’s arm.

To my chagrin, Lizzie was rejected. Thus, she is a semi-permanent addition to the Kelly Sr. household, at least until we can find another child who is fascinated with leopard geckos. Who knows? Maybe she could take acting lessons and hawk cheap car insurance?

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-01-30T18:32:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #390

Nancy White Kelly

Bobby, our adopted son, recently called to tell us the good news. His wife, Ginger, was home from Iraq. It was a joyous surprise. Bobby immediately jumped into his bright red truck and headed to the military base in South Georgia.

Ginger will tell you it is tough been separated from your spouse and children, living half-way around the world in a dangerous war-zone full of fanatics. Bobby will tell you it is hard being “Mr. Mom.”

As the new up-risings in the Middle East hit the headlines, I am especially grateful for our soldiers who protect the freedoms we enjoy and so often take for granted. I am proud to be related to a long line of men who served our country admirably: my grandfather in WWI, my father in WWII, my husband in Korea, and now a young nephew also headed for Korea.

Recently someone send me a story that reminded me of the sacrifices made on our behalf. I must share it. Settle back and take the time to let it soak in. And, yes, better grab some tissues.

“They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.
Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust too. Maybe we were too much alike.

For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls --- he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in. But it became clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.

I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name --- sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.

This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes.
I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes in the guestroom. I mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me.

Finally I found the phone, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction, maybe "glared" is more accurate, and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me.

I punched the shelter phone number, but hung up quickly when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that.

"Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."

--- To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time. it’s like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong which is why I have to try to make it right.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you. First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.

Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down --- I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business. I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in
the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people and me most especially.

Which means that this transition is going to be hard, his going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you: his name's not Reggie.

I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well ... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.

His real name is "Tank" because that is what I drive.

Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the
news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call to the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then
he made good on his word.

Well, this letter is getting downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just
writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family ... but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.

And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust andcome to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dogis what I take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things ... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at
the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.”

Thank you,
Paul M.

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.

The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.

"C'mere boy."

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.

"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me."

Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?"
His ears perked again.

"Yeah. Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

----

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-01-14T12:02:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #388
Nancy White Kelly

My bucket list has one more item with a line drawn through: buying a small RV and traveling at leisure. We have just returned from our first trip in our RV. We didn’t camp exactly. Our goal was to attend a coin show in Tampa and try out the RV on the road. We ended up returning a couple of days earlier than planned due to the anticipated snow and arrived home just seven hours before it started. It was just as well. Nothing went as planned.

A couple of days before we left, Buddy told me to drive around locally and get a feel for the RV. No problem. After all I have a CDL license. I jumped into the camper and proceeded out the drive only to notice a long black line following me. Little did I know that the camper was still connected and powered to the electrical socket in the garage. I meekly backed-up, put the vehicle in park, jumped out and wadded up the electrical line and stuffed it into its compartment. Also unbeknown to me, Buddy had connected our cable TV line to the RV which now was missing the end plug.

Buddy still doesn’t know about the electrical cord. I dared not tell him. But, I had to let him in on the fiasco that happened the next hour.

We have become friends with an elderly widow in a near-by nursing home. I wanted to take her a treat before leaving and pulled into the drive-through of the pizza parlor to place an order. Then came the crunch. Oops!

An awning extended above the drive-through window which punctured the top of the RV. Thankfully, it was repairable with some fiberglass and paint and did no permanent harm. Obviously the awning had been hit before, but that brought little relief to my diminishing driving confidence. Buddy wasn’t happy to have yet another job to do before leaving, but he did manage to laugh.

After a long first day on the road we parked at an all-night service station off the freeway. We were so tired, all we wanted was to bed down. The next day we realized the consequences of not planning for a definite place to stay. The convention center was packed with visitors and there was no parking anywhere, even for cars. We spent a two hours roaming around the one-way streets of downtown Tampa and finally settled on the parking lot of a church. It was then we discovered that we had no electricity, therefore no lights, heat or television. It should not have been a problem since we had an on-board generator. Buddy had tested it at home, but this night it wouldn’t start. Probably had something to do with the high altitude setting or perhaps a bad spark plug.

The next night we stayed at another downtown church which had an electrical outlet. We would gladly leave a donation for the electricity used.

Early in the morning we were surprised by a homeless, middle-aged lady standing outside the door. Buddy invited her inside the RV for coffee. Surprisingly she was clean, sober, intelligent and even witty. While I attended to business at the coin show, Buddy took the lady to lunch and probably made her day with conversation. He has never met a stranger.

It wasn’t a difficult decision to head home early. The RV is parked in the drive surrounded by ice which is where it is likely to stay. We had our fling and the conclusion is that there is no place like home.

nancyk@windstream.net

2011-01-01T11:18:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #387

Nancy White Kelly

As I write this column, Buddy and I are awaiting the dropping of the ball in Times Square in New York City. At midnight, the date will change to 1/1/11. It is the start of a new year full of people hoping the next twelve months will be better than the last.

As you read this column, Buddy and I will beginning a new adventure that started with the movie, “The Bucket List.” It is about two men, actors Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, who discover they have terminal cancer with little time left to live. That movie starting me thinking about things I’d like to do before I pass on and I began penning my own bucket list. It was appropriate in that in September I was warned that I may be entering my third battle with metastatic cancer. Though I have been stable the last couple of years, the CAT scan was suspicious of new growth. The pain in my joints was excruciating which led my doctors to believe the original breast cancer had spread to more bones and was beginning a drive to deprive me of quality living.

Thankfully the repeat test in December showed significant improvement and the pain was attributed to a new cancer drug which had an adverse effect of “severe joint pain.” At one point I was ready to find a chain saw to cut off my own shoulder. On a scale of 1-10, the pain was a 12. My routine morphine didn’t faze the unrelenting pain.

Now that we are past that scare, which I attribute to answered prayer, the Living Lady decided to follow through on one of the items on my bucket list. It certainly wasn’t at the top of the list, but something I had wanted for a long while…a small RV that would allow us to travel at our own pace. Justification of the cost was easy. With the coin shop, I needed to attend regional coin shows occasionally, so this purchase would be more than just a vacation vehicle.

Recently while returning from town, I passed just the type of recreational vehicle that desired. The 2002 RV was the right size and reasonably priced. We could easily re-sell it if needed. Bottom line: Buddy liked the RV too and we bought it that day.
My idea was to fill it up with gas and take off to our first destination, a coin show in Tampa. However, Buddy a retired airline mechanic, is trained to look for mechanical problems which he promptly did. He has spent many hours in the freezing weather checking every bolt. It seemed that each day brought a need for more money.
First, there was no spare tire. Buddy convinced me we couldn’t even think of taking a trip without a spare tire. The problem wasn’t so much the acquiring of a tire; it also had to have a rim. Little did I know that RV rims are of an unusual size and aren’t easy to find, especially a used one. That spare cost us $300. The oil filter and new oil was $65. RV insurance was another $200 plus and then there other costs like title change fees. Buddy’s needs list included a back-up camera, yet to be installed and a heavy-duty jack in case he had to actually use that spare time. Then there was a propane tank full of gas, a special water hose, and a host of other small items that added up to about $500. I held my tongue but my mind mentally complained, “We haven’t even pulled out of the drive-way yet.”

We should be on the road now after delivering Patch to Charlie for doggy-care, arranging for extra security for the coin shop, as well as recruiting a neighbor to feed our chickens and Sam, the cat.

Already I am remembering the TV movie starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez, titled the “Long, Long Trailer.” At Lucy’s insistence, the newly-weds bought a 40-foot drivable trailer home that cost $5300 in the 50’s. The idea was to save money for an eventual house. The added benefit was that the couple could travel around the USA allowing Nicky, played by Desi, to manage civil engineering projects.
Desi and Lucy end up having to buy a more powerful car to tow the trailer. The money spent starts to mount up. Their honeymoon trip to the Sierra Nevada Mountains quickly becomes a believable cascade of challenges and disasters.

For Buddy and me, this bucket list adventure is supposed to be fun. Thus far, it has been less than what I had hoped.

RVing may be a temporary fling for us and this may be a one and only trip. Stay tuned.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-12-03T16:42:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #386

Nancy White Kelly

Thanksgiving Day has passed, but not the season of thanks. November has never been a good month in our family. My parents passed in November, years apart, ironically in the same hospital room.

Other life-changing events also occurred in the eleventh month of the year. In 1964, I spent all the 30 days of November and part of December in a Memphis hospital recovering from spleen surgery.

Thanksgiving, 2010, will go down as particularly memorable. We were again going to host all of our near-by family, which now includes Tori’s parents who live in Warner Robins. This blended family gathering has become a highly anticipated annual tradition although Ginger, Bobby’s wife, would be in Iraq.

The first hint that this was going to be an unusual Thanksgiving was the puzzling disappearance of the frozen holiday turkey. I searched the freezer twice. Big bird wasn’t there. I know the over-sized turkey was not a figment of my imagination.

My sister, Sunnie Anne, and Buddy can back up the fact that I did actually buy a turkey. Buddy was certain I was over-looking Tom, so he too searched the up-right freezer twice. Like a proud hunter returning from the field, Buddy proudly threw his big frozen blob on the kitchen counter. To his chagrin I casually noted that his solid rock was not the missing turkey, but a ham.

The incident of the disappearing turkey was mystifying but soon became a blip on the significance scale compared to what was coming.

On the Saturday preceding Thanksgiving, I received a late-night phone call from son, Charlie. The news wasn’t good. Tori’s father, just 54, was in the hospital with double-pneumonia and kidney failure. This was especially bad since he only had one kidney which was transplanted 20 years ago.

In addition to this shocking news, Charlie said that Tori’s only brother was also in a hospital in Macon with total kidney failure. He pierced his knee with a nail and waited too long to follow up. Sepsis set in. The prognosis for his this young father of four was not good either. Not only were his kidneys in danger, but there was a strong possibility he would lose a portion of his leg.

My heart was saddened, thinking of Sammy’s wife, Ellen, who now simultaneously had a critically ill husband and son in two separate hospitals. What could I do?

When life throws a curve, we so often rely on our faith as we should. I immediately typed up a note to distribute to several prayer warriors that I would see in church the next morning. An email notice went out to others whom I knew would rally in prayer.

Sammy was air-lifted to Emory and rushed to ICU. The doctors warned the family that he was possibly less than an hour from death.

Because this is a column and not a book, I will summarize: The next morning Sammy made a turn for the better. Each day he improved.

Thanksgiving Day came. On the table amongst the usual trimmings was a young turkey that a good friend prepared for us. The best gift of all was answered prayer. Sitting at our Thanksgiving table was a thankful family that included Sammy and the rest of clan. Buddy’s emotional blessing wasn’t routine. We had been bountifully blessed.

November didn’t end badly after all.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-11-19T15:54:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #385

Nancy White Kelly

Thanksgiving…that traditional American Holiday where families all over the United States sit for dinner at the same time---Halftime. The rushing on the football field in no way compares to the sprint through store aisles the next morning.

Black Friday is a strange acronym for the biggest shopping day of the year. Who chose black of all colors? I can think of a more appropriate moniker? How about Blue Friday? That is the color of shopper’s feet after a day of foot-stomping by aggressive women waving discount coupons for the early-bird specials.

A few members of my family still participate in this annual tradition of rising at 5:00 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving. My daughter-in-law and her mother still do. I opted out after the first year as a three-some. Not that I am not invited each year, but I see a slight glimmer of delight when I politely decline. Then a giant smile breaks out when I offer to baby-sit.

I won’t miss Santa Claus or the malls. The first problem is finding a parking place. The second is that you must tussle with otherwise saintly women for the door-buster bargains. Even if you get the very last toy of the year, you must stand in a long, serpentine line that redefines forever. Just when you get to the register, the clerk closes the line. A moral decision must be made? Do you break into the adjacent line or go the end and start over? Oh, what fun!

I prefer to shop all year. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, I have most everything bought that goes under the tree. Then the task begins that I dread most…wrapping. I am not artistic, not even a little bit. My packages never look like those in the catalogs. An eight-year-old could do better. This year a close friend who loves to wrap gifts has offered to help. Thank you, my Martha Stewart Hummingbird.

If your name isn’t Martha and your culinary talents are lacking, I have some words to cheer you up if you burn the turkey.

You won’t have to worry about Salmonella.

The smoke alarm was over-due for a test.

Carving the bird will provide a good cardiovascular workout.

When the game is finally over, the guys can take the bird to the yard and play football.

Until next year, Happy Goobally-gobbally Gook.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-11-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #384

Nancy White Kelly

This is Thanksgiving month, a time to reflect on the blessing of family and friends. Most of us categorize friends: close, sort-of close, solid acquaintances from work, church and the neighborhood, old friends who no longer live near-by, very old friends from childhood, and new friends we haven’t known long enough to label. There are many sub-categories of friends, but you get the point.

My few closest friends are my confidants. We can banter freely without fear of betrayal. We don’t dress up for each other or need to call first before dropping by. They’ve seen my dust and dishes in the sink. I think nothing of their unmade bed. They would feel free to raid the refrigerator.

Within reason, I could borrow money from my closest friends or anything else of value. I could call on this special enclave day or night and they’d drop everything and come running.

It should be no surprise that they would expect the same responses from me and would get it. This sounds sappy, but you wouldn’t have to be a close friend to avail my help. Buddy was a Boy Scout. He can recite their pledge on cue and does so often. I like the part of being willing to help others at all times. I learned that in Sunday school, “Be ye kind one to another.”

But, be I am no goody-goody two-shoes. My foibles are many. I have personalized a well-known mantra: “Fool me once, friend, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Only once has a close friend hurt me deeply. It would be trivial to most people, but trust is hard to regain. That wound took a long while to heal so I give my trust cautiously. The past is the past and I choose not to dwell on things forgiven.

I cannot fail to acknowledge my internet friendships. Some acquaintances have never met personally, but a few relationships have truly blossomed. The first time I saw Judy she was lying in a casket. She fought a long battle with breast cancer. During that war, she and I must have exchanged a jillion keystrokes. Judy’s grieved husband asked me to give the eulogy for his wife. I was honored to do so. Friendships know no boundaries.

Thanks to the Internet, hardly a day goes by that I haven’t benefitted from at least one quasi-helpful email.

Why buy expensive cookies from Neiman-Marcus? I now have the recipe.

I no longer touch the bottom of purses for fear it has spent time on the floor of a public restroom lurking with ghastly microbes.

When eating in a restaurant I now keep my eyes on my Southern wine at all times. The tea glass goes where I go. Otherwise, I might wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys removed.

No more cancer-causing deodorants for me. It is far better to smell like a water buffalo all day.

Please don’t offer your hand for me to shake when you get out of your car. One of my cyber friends just advised me that the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one’s nose.

I keep my toothbrush in the living room. Experts say that water splashes over 6 feet from the toilet.

While I concede to being friendly, I admit to being stubborn. I adamantly refuse to give up my Diet Coke. Why should I worry about having cancer since I already have it? If you don’t have the Big C, , it might interest you to know that one cyber friend told me the ingredients in Coke are strong enough to dissolve a T-bone steak in 3 days.

With tongue in cheek, I transmit this foreboding notice to the Living Lady’s discerning readers: If you do not send this column to 166,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large bald eagle with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 tomorrow afternoon. The fleas from 120 camels will infest your body causing you to grown hairy bumps that attract bed bugs. I know this will occur because one of my Internet friends said it actually happened to her second husband’s cousin whose best friend is a local beautician.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-10-23T09:54:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #382

Nancy White Kelly

There has been so much emphasis in the news this month regarding Alzheimer’s. Jokes abound, but it is a serious disease. Now that I am in the last half of my sixties, slips of memory bother me.

I know a face, but the name disappears. I lie awake at night, sometimes for hours, trying to resurrect a name that I should know well. Details of events, even recent ones, somehow slip into a mysterious black hole in my brain. Am I headed down that Alzheimer’s road?

Leading authorities say that Alzheimer’s begins twenty years before becoming obvious. The same can be said of certain types of cancer. There are slow growing-cancers and those that are so aggressive it takes your breath. A friend recently succumbed to cancer in less than three weeks after diagnosis. He and I were working together on forming a local coin club. Bill seemed to be in vibrant health. In our last phone conversation, I asked what I could do for him. He humbly replied, “Pray for me.” I did, but sometimes our will is not that of the Heavenly Father. None of us are going to make it out of this world alive.

Personality-wise and somewhat in looks, I am very much like my paternal aunt who died of serious dementia a few years ago. She forgot who Buddy was and barely recognized me on my last visit though she was like a second mother while I was a child.

Like many folks of her generation, she smoked most of her life. Her only brother, my father, died at the age of 62. He was a heavy smoker too. Thankfully none of the children are smokers, but we can’t help but wonder about the second-hand smoke we were subjected to long before the effects were known.

Most likely I am just growing older and experiencing normal diminishment of brain cells that transmit thoughts and revives memories. I feel much younger than the calendar says and can still be the life of the party as long as I am home by 8:00. Instead of Alzheimer’s, maybe I have what Buddy refers to as “All-timers.”

While on a road trip last year, an elderly couple stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch. After finishing their meal, they left the restaurant and resumed their trip. When leaving, the poor woman unknowingly left her glasses on the table. She didn't miss them until they had been driving for about forty minutes.
Adding to the aggravation, they had to travel quite a distance before they could find a place to turn so they could return to the restaurant to retrieve her glasses.

All the way back, the husband became the classic grouchy man. He fussed, complained, and scolded his wife relentlessly during the long return drive.
The more he chided her, the more agitated he became. He would not let up for a single minute.

To the woman’s relief, they finally arrived at the restaurant. As the chagrinned wife got out of the car and hurried inside to retrieve her glasses, the old geezer yelled to her, "While you're in there, you might as well get my hat and the credit card."

I do hope my mind lasts as long as my body. I dare not allow my mind to wander anymore. It should not be out on its own. Truthfully, Buddy might not remember to look for me.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-10-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #381

Nancy White Kelly

My Mama taught me that proper people don’t discuss their finances in public. I’m not feeling very proper today.

After rocking from Buddy’s very recent root canal to the tune of $1000, we were completely blown off our feet at what happened yesterday.
We have a darling miniature, ten-month-old dachshund with unusual pie-bald coloring. Except for his size, he could be mistaken for a Jersey cow. Patch is such a joy, full of life and kisses.

On Tuesday afternoon Patch came through the doggie door yelping non-stop doggy opera. Buddy held him while I tried to look for the problem. He had about a two inch cut on his side. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but I bundled him up in a beach towel to hold him more comfortably. He was obviously in pain and that pathetic crying drove us to quick action.

Because we were noted as a “walk-in”, our wait to be seen by the closest veterinarian seemed unusually long. We didn’t complain. Patch did. Everybody in the building knew that he was present and not happy.

When our turn came to see the veterinarian, a technician appeared. We were told he would need stitches and should stay over-night for observation. The tech checked off a long list of blood tests which we declined, including the CBC. This wasn’t major surgery, just a clean cut that needed repair.

The vet called that night and reported that the stitching went fine with no complications. We could pick up our “beagle” the next morning.

On the way to the office the following day, I asked Buddy what was his estimate of the bill. He guessed $200, most of which he jokingly said would probably go to the loan principle for that fairly new, post-modern building. I assured Buddy he was wrong. The charges shouldn’t amount to more than $100. After-all, we were only talking about a straight cut and a few stitches.

Buddy doesn’t hear well and stood quietly aside while I took care of business at the counter.

“Are you ready?” the receptionist asked. I should have known that this was a preliminary warning statement.

“Six-hundred and sixty-five dollars and thirty cents,” she said. I repeated what I thought she must have said, “Sixty-five dollars and thirty cents?”

“No, $665.30,” the lady replied nonchalantly as the invoice hummed through the printer. I turned to Buddy in shock and repeated the amount. His response was appropriate.

“What?” he asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

When it became clear that we weren’t leaving with Patch until we paid the bill, I wrote out the check. Buddy suggested we leave the dog, but, of course, we couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. Patch wasn’t to blame for this legal robbery. Buddy suggested out loud that wearing a mask was certainly appropriate for the vet.

Patch was as excited to see us as we were to be leaving the scene of what we now refer to as our “665- Aggravated Larceny.” Maybe we watch too many crime shows.

Buddy and I have examined the itemized bill several times. There were eighteen charges, most of which were ridiculously exaggerated and highly over-billed.

For example, “wound debridement: $38.05” and “Wound cleaning, $29.29.” As if that wasn’t redundant enough, there was a related charge of “wound flushing, $14.77.” Four shots were given, each costing about $30 each. There was even a charge for IV fluids with surgery.” Certainly we couldn’t have dehydration during that ten-minute sewing job and a line needed to be available for immediate access in case something went terribly wrong.

The absurd bill continued with charges for “surgical pack autoclave/ postoperative nursing” and “anesthesia monitoring.” Lots of things can happen in ten minutes. What I would have given to have been a fly on the wall.

Back home in familiar surroundings, Patch was his old self by the end of the day.
Us? We are trying not to laugh at the irony of the last line printed on the bill: “Your invoice was discounted as much as possible to reduce financial burden.”

Sorry, Mama. Proper or not, some stories just must be told.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-09-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #380

Nancy White Kelly

Don’t know why mortality has been on my mind lately. Maybe it is because of all the funerals I have attended lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, on the same newspaper obituary page, were the pictures of three long-time friends.

One day recently a casual friend called and asked if she could come by and visit. “Of course,” I said though I was a bit puzzled. Neither Buddy nor I were sick. She mentioned that we were the second of two visits she was making that afternoon. The other was to mutual friends who have battled life-threatening illness for a long, long time.

We had a nice visit. The sweet lady brought Buddy and me a funny book, nuts, and fruit. We chatted for over an hour. Still in the back of my mind I was wondering what was behind this Sunday afternoon drop-by.

Only as we hugged and said good-bye did I get my answer. This day was the anniversary of her husband’s death. She was doing something besides having a pity party. She was bringing encouragement, even laughter, to others. What an inspiration she was to me and something I plan to remember if Buddy should pass first.
Actually widowhood is a frightening subject to me. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Although my health history scuttles the statistics, chances are that I will out-live him. That scares me to death.

The longer I live the more I realize that our culture is primarily a society of couples. A once-married, single woman sticks out. I look around in church and see numerous friends who not so long ago had a man by their side. Now they look incomplete, even lonely. I admire their courage to keep going in spite of their loss, but don’t long for that courage myself. I don’t want to be unmarried to Buddy, ever. There is something about Buddy’s warm body and over-wrapped arm at night that gives me security. What peace to know that if I were lost in the woods, there is one person who would swim a river to find me.

What would I do without him? I don’t know how to start the well pump when lightning strikes. How do you light the furnace when the season changes?
Who would fill the gas tank when I don’t notice the warning light? Who would prod me to go light on the salt and sugar?

Marriages are made in heaven - but then...so are thunder and lightning. There have been a few misunderstandings in our 46 years of marriage. As we grow older, there has been some amusing miscommunication.

Last week I was invited to a wedding shower for a soon- to- be bride.

As I was trading my lounging clothes for fancier duds, Buddy inquired as to where I was going. I replied, “To Hiawassee.”

He came to the bathroom door.

“Why, “he asked.

“For a shower,” I replied while powdering my nose. I frowned at him. He had seen the invitation on the table.

Buddy’s wrinkled forehead told me he didn’t hear me correctly. I repeated slowly, “I am going to Hiawassee for a shower.”

He still looked confused. Finally he asked, “Why not take a shower right here?”
“I am going to a wedding shower, honey, Remember?”

He moaned as the words registered. I laughed. He laughed. We both laughed again and we are still laughing.

Life would be bleak without my Buddy.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-09-08T09:12:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #379

Nancy White Kelly

This week didn’t start off too well. Due to my cryptic shorthand on the wall calendar, I was two hours late for the funeral of a friend who died with breast cancer. She fought a good fight. Linda was the epitome of bravery when on a death march. She is at peace now and perfectly healed.

This column, first called Journal of a Dying Lady, began when I too was facing the big C for the second time. When originally diagnosed, our son Charlie was 5. I asked…well, begged, the Lord to let me live to see him finish high school. I got my request. Weeks before he graduated, the cancer returned with a vengeance. The doctors gave me 18 months to live if I took chemotherapy and nine months without it. In spite of the cancer news, I was the happiest mama in Town’s county the night Charlie got his diploma.

It hasn’t been easy. ”Slash, cut, burn” is a negative euphemism for the difficult journey with aggressive cancer. On this second round, the cancer metastasized to my lungs and spine. I eventually was enrolled in hospice which was a wonderful help to Buddy and me. One morning, when the nurse decided on her own to take my car keys, I decided I didn’t want to be in hospice any longer. I checked out and never looked back.

God gave me another miraculous span of time, years actually, whereby my cancer has been stable. I have lived to see Charlie finish college, get married, and have two wonderful grandsons. Our last foster child, whom we later adopted, eventually grew up and became a responsible adult in spite of a turbulent adolescence.

Recently, while having my routine oncology check-up, I told my doctor that I didn’t have a good feeling about the up-coming scans. He moved the scheduled scan date up knowing that we cancer patients often have intuitive vibes.

Two hours ago I got the call. The results weren’t what we had hoped. For the first time in this long span of almost normal living, there appears now to be a new lesion in the lung. It may or may not be malignant, but the scenario is eerily similar to my last episode.

My oncologist has been amazed all along at my longevity. He says he doesn’t see miracles very often and beams proudly while pointing upward. We both recognize divine intervention.

So where to from here? Because of the size and location of the growth, it can’t be biopsied just yet. In a few weeks I will have another scan to see if that spot has enlarged enough to be sampled.

It is hard to predict the course ahead. My doctor previously said that we have used up all the chemo options. Maybe some new drug is in the pipe line for breast cancer. Perhaps this is a different type of cancer that will respond to other untried chemotherapies. The best scenario of all is that this is a false alarm.
There will be many questions to ask and hopefully miles to go before I join my friend, Linda. One thing is for sure. I won’t be late to my own funeral.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-08-25T17:15:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #378

Nancy White Kelly

“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus,” goes the old spiritual. Jump ahead a century and half. The words are still relevant regardless of race. Everywhere we turn we see difficulty.

Right now I can name ten friends who are struggling with either cancer or stroke. I have close relatives who have recently lost their livelihood. They wish they had a mule and forty acres. Personally I would pass on the gift of a four-legged mule since I am married to a lovable two-legged one. Land would be a welcomed gift, but with real estate in the dumps, it can’t be counted on as a fluid asset.

There is so much sadness in this world that you’d think no hope exists. I can vouch for the physical, emotional and financial discomfort that accompanies metastatic cancer. I have aggressively battled this disease off and on for twenty-five years. Throw in kidney failure and dialysis and I ought to qualify for the 9-lives trophy. A friend calls me “Mrs. Kitty” for good reason. How many people have been in hospice twice?

Buddy and I have attended church regularly since we were young children. It isn’t a mere habit, but our source of strength to keep functioning in today’s demoralizing environment. Last week was different.

I teach an adult Bible study class on Sunday mornings. This week a young man headed to the Peace Corp filled in for me so I could participate in an unusual program to be presented during the worship service. Few people knew about it ahead of time.
Spurred by something similar seen on the Internet, members of an appropriately named “Praise Committee” decided to do our own version of “Cardboard Testimonies.”
Against the solo choral backdrop of “Amazing Grace,” thirty-one people slowly walked one by one to the center of the church stage holding a ragged piece of old cardboard. While they stood there silently, the congregation focused on the individualized and succinct statement written in bold lettering.

Each sign simply stated what difficulty that person had experienced. After a few seconds, the individual turned the cardboard over which revealed the positive outcome. Those short testimonies were awesome. Many related to a close encounters with mortality due to illness or accidents. Others told of depression, fire, and deaths of children. One has a spouse serving time. Two of the participants were in wheel chairs.

Each cardboard testimony told a short story of desperation; all gave praise to God for His help in coping and over-coming. Most of the participants were familiar church members, but probably only a few congregants knew the difficult circumstances their pew mates had endured. Only God knew all those stories.

The cardboard testimonies were a great reminder that in the midst of all our troubles, hope exists. We don’t hear that good news often enough.

Hope springs from the eternal.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-08-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady # 377
Nancy White Kelly

We’ve all heard the quote, “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.” That’s me. Funny how so many of our friends and family members think that because Buddy and I are technically “retired,” we sit on the porch and rock away our days. Far from it.
We cram so much into a day that we have to schedule our headaches. I make promises to myself that I plan to keep when all the conditions are perfect which they never are.

I have been writing the Journal of a Living Lady for about 11 years. Writer’s block is becoming more frequent as I age, so I slowed down the pace a bit. Now I try to get this column to the publisher every two weeks. There were a few unhappy murmurs from good friends, but they understand. I have too much on my plate, but can’t bring myself to unload any of it yet. Everything and everybody is important to me.
Out of nearly 400 essays, it surprises me that someone will remember one written years ago. A column frequently mentioned has to do with Valentine’s Day. Let me share it again for those of you who have never read it. Yes, it is deadline time. If it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would get done.

Generally, at our age, we just blurt out what we want for a special occasion. Hinting is for young folks who can still hear well.

I told Buddy no roses for Valentines this year. For that price I could get something more touching like a therapeutic massage. With a son then in college, luxuries were low on our priority list. Since Buddy would insist on buying roses and take me to dinner anyway, I suggested a romantic substitute. Instead of eating out, I would treat him to his favorite meatloaf dinner with candlelight and banana pudding.

What Buddy requested for Valentine’s Day surprised me. He has always wanted and I have always refused a pet pig. Not that we didn’t have a baby pig once. We kept him in the back of our three acres in Stockbridge. Porky was an entertaining pet. He looked forward to Buddy’s coming home from work each day and squealed and did a jig when he heard the old truck turn the corner.

Alas, as all pigs do, Porky grew and grew and grew. Finally we had a 400 pound pet that was eating more than our family, which included a host of needy kids who were living with us at the time. Our family could never have eaten Porky anyway, so he went to a co-worker who left singing, “This little piggy went to market.” That mean man had Porky slaughtered the next day and his family ate him all year. So much for the pig phase. At least I thought so.

But this last Valentine Day, Buddy wanted a pig. Not just a pet pig, but one to be kept in the house. Now I am an amiable person, but a pig in the house? That was really testing the limits of my congeniality.

Buddy is not your usual husband. He is kind, helpful, and loves me to a fault. Actually he is very hard to say no to. Knowing that my days are considered numbered due to active cancer, I decided to let him have his pet pig as a parting present. I kept it a secret and didn’t tell him that I was seriously trying to find a piglet. I just rolled my eyes anytime the subject came up.

A friend helped me locate a genuine pig farmer not too far from the house. I called the pig breeder who confirmed he had pigs of all sizes. I told him I wanted a baby for my husband and would be at his farm before Valentine to pick him up.

My sister was in town, so on Friday we shopped for the best, most expensive high protein pig pellets we could find. Next we got some good quality kitty litter and a huge paint roller box to serve as “Gussy’s” litter box. I never believed for a minute a pig could be trained to use a kitty box, but the research said she would.

My energy level is very low, especially in the afternoon, so by the time we got Gussy’s collar and other toys, I was ready to let Buddy in on the surprise. I sent him to unload the trunk full of pellets.

When Buddy came back into the house, there was a smile on his face from ear to ear. He searched every room looking for the piglet. He was disappointed that I hadn’t already gotten him. I explained that the pig farmer was supposed to be home the next afternoon and he could go with me to pick his piglet out. Buddy and our son, Charlie, had already changed Gussy’s name to “Bacon.”

The man I had spoken to wasn’t home and his elderly father insisted there weren’t any baby pigs. I insisted that he must be mistaken since his son had told me so. The elderly man reluctantly told us to drive up to the pig pens and look for ourselves.

Buddy and I walked in muck past our ankles from one pig pen to another. There were hundreds of hogs, each pen as full as the next.

We spotted a sow that must have weighed 1000 pounds. As for a piglet, the smallest pig that we saw weighed more than me and, until recently, I shopped in the plus department.

The hog smell was not something you would find in a fine perfume shop. You could have collected that stench, put it in a gas bomb, and destroyed a large, unsuspecting nation. It took less than twenty minutes for Buddy to decide he didn’t want a pig after all.

We thanked the old gentleman and headed home for quick showers. Neither of us said a word as we rolled down the windows and breathed the wonderfully fresh mountain air.

It wasn’t a total loss. I am not one to waste food. The pellets mixed up well with the meat loaf.

Oink. Oink.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-07-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #376

Nancy White Kelly

She is ninety-years-old. There is not a shared drop of blood between us. As I finish up the dishes, she and Buddy are in deep conversation about everything from the depression era to modern politics.

I met Allie (name changed) about four years ago. I was in the coin shop when a dilapidated van puttered into the drive. An elderly lady slowly got out of the driver side and made her way to the passenger side. I watched, almost in horror, as she assisted a big, tall man get out of the vehicle. He was more than twice her size and probably even older. The blue of his diaper showed above his belt line.
They were there to sell a few tiny gold coins. During the conversation that ensued, I found out that they lived high on a mountain in North Carolina. The couple, married for sixty-two years, were so obviously in love and even more obviously poor.

This unlikely pair were cutting their own wood to stay warm on those cold days and practically living in one room with a small heater. They had no local kin folks. Allie has a niece in Texas, a step-son in Florida and a distant relative up north who is also up in age. I kept their phone number and told them to call if they ever had a need.

Allie did call me a couple times just to talk. She didn’t complain, just commented on the tough reality of the times. A few months later her husband entered a nursing home and she was alone, unable to drive and dependent on neighbors to get groceries or to visit occasionally with her ailing husband.

That was when I started checking on Allie regularly. After a couple of weeks of not answering my calls, I finally tracked her to the same nursing home where her husband had recently died. She had something akin to a stroke and the state had taken total control of her property.

I have since talked to the case worker and think they are doing what is considered best in her interest. Even though Allie’s husband was a retired full colonel, having worked himself up from the ranks, they entered the twilight years with more bills than money.

The first time I visited Allie after her stroke, she vaguely remembered me. Gradually her mind returned to be as sharp as before. Eventually I was able to take Allie, and her squeaky walker, for short trips to eat at a restaurant. She had no money and was embarrassed at her inability to even pay the tip.
My Sunday school class bought her a few clothes and she was thrilled. Every time I visit Allie I take a few dime store goodies and some fruit. You would think it was Christmas.

Today we had Allie for an afternoon of whatevers. Buddy fixed that noisy walker and attached tennis balls to the rear wheels. Smells of spaghetti, her favorite food, filled the house as we chatted, read and laughed.
When we were ready to return Allie to the nursing facility for the night, she wasn’t ready. Being in the real world, in a normal home, was a surreal experience for her. She didn’t want it to end.

Later, when I checked her into the care facility and got her settled in her tight, two-person room, tears ran down her cheek. We hugged. I told her I loved her and her voice trembled in a mumbled reply as we parted. After the grandchildren come next week, I promised I would be back.

There are so many like Allie in this world. While we can’t pay attention to all, most all of us can take interest in at least one.

I am learning that some of the best conversations are with those under six or over eighty.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-07-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #375

Nancy White Kelly

Being the second of five siblings, my life has always involved children. My parent’s last two babies came so much later in my life that I became their surrogate mother and am, to this day, second mother to a sister in her forties and a brother in his fifties. I find it hard to imagine now that I changed thousands of cloth diapers for that last brother who is now 6 foot 4 and weighs well over 300 pounds. The irony is that the sum total weight of all five grown children now would approach at least 15 times the weight of our mother who was less than 100 pounds soaking wet.

Babies grow up. After college, I became a teacher and later spend the last part of my career as a school principal. In the meanwhile, Buddy and I helped raise 12 foster children and adopted the last one, Bobby, when he was 10. He now has two children himself. Charlie, our birth son, who arrived after 15 years of earnest prayer, also has two children: Micah, age 5 and Noah, age 3.

Though the grand boys are close in age and look-alikes, they are as different as chalk and cheese. Noah, the youngest, is an energetic walking-talking dynamo. One thing I know for sure. I am not smarter than a three-year old. Noah already displays a family passion for humor and words. Last week he told his brother he had “good news and bad news.”

Little Micah came into the world a bit premature. It has been a long journey to get to a diagnosis of mildly autistic. The first clue that there might be a problem was that Micah never crawled. He got around with a military elbow pull. We weren’t overly concerned. He walked a few months later and that was all that mattered to us. Another clue we missed was that he was meticulously orderly, especially with his little cars. When Micah first showed interest those little four-wheel vehicles, family and friends bestowed him with hundreds in every shape and color. The miniature cars could not be parked just any ole way. They had to be lined up perfectly according to size, type, or color. If not, we were blasted with his version of the sky is falling. At first we all thought it was a cute quirk. Not so now. Obsession was another symptom of his autism.

Thankfully, Micah’s I.Q. measures in the mid-normal range. Yet, his speech development has been slow. His potty-training was prolonged, but finally mastered. He is a quiet, self-absorbed child who can entertain himself for hours.

From those early months, Charlie and Tori have diligently pursued intensive speech and occupational therapy. This early intervention may be the one thing that has and will continue to keep him main-streamed. Though unlikely to greet you with high-fives, most people would not even notice that Micah is autistic.

Surprisingly, he has taken up a new, intense interest which I will share another time. Who knows? Micah may become the next expert in poikilothermic, ectothermic tetrapods. I have just ordered some books so Granny can keep up.

Obviously autism has taken a toll on the family finances, especially on a school teacher’s salary. Now Charlie is feeling led to the ministry and, if all goes as planned, he and the family will be moving to Kentucky in a few months so he can attend seminary. Only The Lord knows how they will manage the expense, but that is what faith is all about. When the Lord calls, he provides.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-06-27T16:25:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #374

Nancy White Kelly

Some weeks are normal and other anything but. Recently Buddy and I took a rare visit to our respective hometowns in Tennessee and Mississippi. We had nice visits with our siblings and extended family. We are all obviously aging and in that inevitable transition from children to senior adults.

While visiting my brother Charles’ farm, Buddy got his first opportunity to try out the miniature video camera I gave him for his birthday. I told him that at age 78 the best was yet to come and to capture it for posterity. His most prized clip so far features Charles’ jackass enjoying a carrot dangling from Buddy’s lips. And to think I used to romantically kiss those same ancient puckers.

On the way home, we passed a serious wreck on the interstate near Chattanooga. It is doubtful that the driver lived as the over-turned jeep poured ominous black smoke which could be seen for miles. We doubled-checked our seatbelts.

Coming down Cohutta mountain, we were stopped around a blind curve by a host of state troopers. Thankfully we had made sure we had our registration and insurance papers in tact before we left. From the looks of the line of other cars parked to the side, many others had not.

We were delighted to find Sam, our Siamese cat, alive. He eagerly greeted us in the drive-way. When we left, he had been gone for two days, neither normal nor unusual either. He has a harem somewhere, but doesn’t understand he is forever fixed. Fortunately the church lady who was house and dog sitting our dachshund Patch kept hearing meows. She did some sleuthing and found him locked under the house. Obviously he snuck in behind Buddy when he inched his way in the dirt basement to check the water heater before our trip. Other than being tired, hungry, and thirsty, Sam was okay, just mad.

Immediately after we fell in bed on Sunday evening, Charlie called and needed a favor. Could we babysit Tuesday so Tori could go with him to the Braves game as he was tapped to drive the church bus? As she would be returning the next day from a week long mission trip, he and she would like some time together. No problem. We don’t need much of an excuse to visit with Micah and Noah.

I spent Monday catching up with laundry, bills, and grocery shopping. Buddy cut the ever-growing grass. After bedtime, I got the munches and decided on a bowl of cereal. Big mistake!

Even before the alarm sounded, I awakened with a severe headache. Nothing helped. I walked the floor. With no relief, I ran water from the sink hose forcefully on my throbbing brain. Then it got worse. My intestines grumbled for attention. Minutes later I was violently barfing, almost wishing to die or at least black out until the misery passed.

There wasn’t much Buddy could do to help, but he tried. He shook me every ten minutes to see if I was still alive after such violent vomiting. He offered me a variety of belly-soothers: water, tomato soup, and even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. All I wanted was to be still and quiet.

I hated disappointing Charlie and Tori. They don’t ask for help often, but there was no way I could delightfully entertain a three and five year old in my state of being. I looked more like a wild-haired monster than their Granny.

I chalked up the illness to a nasty ole stomach virus. For a whole day I was most miserable. It was also lost day for my customers of the Ye Old Coin Shop, many who had patiently awaited my return from our mini-vacation. Buddy told them that they would have to wait a little longer.

What I soon found out was that this wasn’t a virus at all. According to the press reports, there was a recall being made of sugar pop cereal from a major company with the same initial as my last name. Seems a certain packaging held the innocent-looking, but villainous food.

As soon as my eyes could focus well enough, I checked the UPC symbol. The code matched. I had consumed the product that was being recalled.

What is the value of a lost day of your life? What is a day of “wish I were dead” misery worth? What about the ancillary losses to my husband, son, daughter-in-law, and grandsons? Some friends have half-teasingly asked if I planned to sue.

According to my research, it wouldn’t be worth the time to pursue the matter. I did contact the company. Their response was for me to send them full contact information and the recalled product codes. Then they would gladly send me a coupon for a replacement box of cereal.

Thanks, but no thanks.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-06-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #373

Nancy White Kelly

The Living Lady has three speeds: on, off, and don't press your luck. Buddy says I am easy to get along with most of the time and he ought to know. It does take a lot to push my buttons so when I get steamed, it warrants a column.

Buddy and I are animal lovers. Our repertoire of animals and fowl over forty-five years of marriage has run the gamut. We once had a pet raccoon that had a connoisseur taste for our neighbor’s chickens. Bye-bye, Coonie.

Four years ago, twin goats were birthed in our bathtub. Some foreigners adopted them with a promise they weren’t for sacrifice.

We’ve had finches to Macaws. Last winter we had 100 cockatiels, an unintended teaching experiment on color mutation and exponententiality.

Back in the 60’s, Buddy and I obtained an organ-grinder monkey on a crazy whim. That capuchin didn’t like my main man one bit. Whenever Buddy approached the monkey’s pen to look closer, the cagy little beast would leap forward and swiftly run two long, slinky fingers up Buddy’s nose. My “for sale” ad simply said, “husband allergic.”

Animals have come and gone from the Kelly home for various reasons. Our menagerie has dwindled. We now have a Siamese cat named Sam and an orphaned cockatiel named Chipper.

The bird and Buddy do a duet whistle of the first few bars of the Marine hymn each morning. I salute the flag. Buddy was in the Navy, but what does that matter?
Our pet Chihuahua, Oppie, died a couple of years ago of old age. Soon after, I got another chi who escaped our opened doggie door. She ran across the road in front of a car. Our neighbor mercifully disposed of her battered body. It took a while to recover from the guilt of my being so negligent.

Eventually I placed a few computer-generated brochures around the community seeking another lapdog. I had forgotten about those notices until I received a call a few days ago. A lady asked if I were still looking for a pup. A friendly conversation ensued. She said her son who lived in another town was going back to school and had a 3-month-old dachshund that he couldn’t keep. The mother said he was looking for a good home for the dog. I excitedly envisioned having a new canine addition to our family. The caller didn’t think he wanted any money for the puppy which was a nice plus. She asked if her son could call me.

“Of course.”

Within a few hours the son relayed the same story. He did say he’d like fifty dollars to cover her shots which was reasonable. I agreed to that amount. He said he’d be in Blairsville on Sunday. We agreed to meet after church.

I spent the week fixing up a tiny spare room. Next came the purchase of a crate, bed, food, leash, collar and a few doggy toys. On Saturday night I called the young man to agree on a definite time and place to meet. To my surprise, the fellow wasn’t happy to hear from me. He spoke rather abruptly and said it was “first come, first served.”

My heart sank as I explained that I thought it was a done deal. He said his mother had promised him to the vet. That was puzzling since she was the one who first contacted me. The boy-man was obviously conflicted and eventually softened. He would meet me at the pizza place on the square just after I finished teaching my Sunday school class.

My relief was short-lived. A few minutes later he called back and said the dog was promised to the vet. I choked up, angrier than any mad hatter or wet hen. I tried to control my quaking voice. Nothing I said changed the matter.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. My mind flooded with sad memories. There was a time many years ago when Buddy and I were expecting a baby boy and had already set up the nursery. The pregnancy terminated unexpectedly and I was devastated for months.
After I hung up the phone, Buddy came through the den and noticed my flowing tears. He was furious. Not that he cared so much about getting a puppy, but that I was so saddened. He insisted I find another dog “immediately.” I said I would in time. My heart wasn’t in it then.

A few days later I told this story to a lady I met at a flea market. She said she had just seen an ad for a 3- month-old dachshund puppy in a local newspaper. Thirty minutes later I had that ad in hand and called. Yes, the breeder had an adoptable puppy returned because of the buyer’s hospitalization.

Buddy and I were at the seller’s country home as fast as we could put the address on the GPS. The waiting dachshund puppy, with his long body and floppy ears, was irresistible. He was white with large, copper spots. The attachment was instant and mutual. Within twenty minutes we were on the way home to Young Harris with our peppy puppy.

Trying to come up with an appropriate name for him hasn’t been easy. Solo and Scooter are prevalent names for that breed in our family. Somehow they didn’t fit our new pup. We tried Zeke, Zack, Ziggy, Doxie, Hershey, Oogle, Gizmo, and a host of other names before arriving on one that fits. His name is Patch.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-05-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #372
Nancy White Kelly

Some of my favorite friends are the insulting kind. You know…those people who teasingly throw out sarcastic, linguistic jabs at lightening fast speed. These pundits know their victims well and are selective about who is on the receiving end of these verbal acts. Only members of the Mutual Admiration Society participate. It would be an act of social war to send the same message to someone whose heart is housed in a body wrapped in sensitive skin.

A reader wrote me this note just after my book, Journal of a Living Lady, was published: "Thanks for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." That reader and I have known each other for more than thirty years and we have a history of comedic slams.

Perverse or reverse humor has been around a long time. You might be surprised at the people who have engaged in such verbal warfare. These are a couple of my choice quotes:

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend.... if you have one."
- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill
"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." - Winston Churchill, in response.

***

"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary."
- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway).

'Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?' - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

***

Unfortunately, not all wit is well-intentioned. Remember the exchange between
Churchill & Lady Astor. She said, "If you were my husband I'd give you poison."
He replied, "If you were my wife, I'd drink it."

And finally. A member of Parliament discoursed to Disraeli: "Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease."

"That depends, Sir," said Disraeli, "whether I embrace your policies or your mistress."

I have always heard that quick wit is a sign of lofty intelligence. Even though I carry an ancient Mensa membership card as a reminder of smarter days, I still don’t qualify for the elite group who can instantly return a swicket.

But to my good friend who is always late, I offer a defense on her behalf. She has good reason for perpetual tardiness. Her ancestors arrived on the Juneflower.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-05-07T14:44:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #371

Nancy White Kelly

Notoriety is a funny thing. One day you are a nobody and gradually everybody, at least locally, seems to know you.

After writing a newspaper column for over 12 years, being on Oprah, surviving two major and public bouts of cancer, writing a book, traveling the world, you might expect a few fans. But not the paparazzi. Not in the quaint mountain town of Young Harris, Georgia.

Recently Buddy and I were preparing for a morning visit to town. We needed a belt for the vacuum cleaner. It was a good excuse to stop for pancakes at a cozy restaurant across the street from our church.

There was coolness in the house so I donned a light jacket and glanced outside for a more accurate check on the weather.

To my amazement there was a small crowd of folks at the far corner of our property. Parked cars lined the street near the edge of the pasture.

“Come see this” I called to Buddy. “Twenty-five people or more are gathered outside. They have cameras and binoculars.”

Buddy sprinted across the den. His eyes widened in disbelief.

“What are they doing?” he whispered.

“I don’t know, but they sure seem interested in us.”

No longer whispering, Buddy asked with a hint of distain, “Have you applied for a reality show?”

“No, have you?” I asked with obvious sarcasm.

Being slightly famous is fun for some. Not so much for me. I don’t care to be followed by nosey reporters. Never will I be a candidate for that dancing program which aims to make buffoons of aging actresses, astronauts, and computer programmers. Five extra minutes of fame can be detrimental to one’s legacy.

Nevertheless, I went to the bathroom, fluffed my hair and re-applied my make-up. This time I was careful that my lipstick was straight. Never know when a candid picture may show up on the cover of People magazine.

Buddy and I quietly got into the car. Our three acres has total road frontage. Buddy suggested we travel the back section which butted the main frontage road just behind the group. If all went as planned, the celebrity hounds wouldn’t notice us at all.

Buddy slowly made his way up the gravely incline and inched toward the stop sign. So far we had not drawn attention. As we drew closer to the conspicuously quiet group, we could see faces.

There they were, men and women outfitted in comfortable outdoor attire, staring intently through large binoculars.

Buddy and I were proud of our near escape. While the crowd was looking high and low, we were about to turn the opposite direction.

I was the first to spot an identification badge. I spontaneously laughed so hard I held my belly.

“Turn left, honey. Not right. Left”

Puzzled at my hysterical out-burst and strange request, Buddy dutifully turned left in front of the group of mostly middle-aged stalkers.

Buddy lowered his side window as he slowly passed by.

“Howdy, folks. It’s a nice day,” he said pleasantly to the man closest to the road. Then Buddy moaned as the words on the badge sunk in.

Written in bold block letters was an I.D.: “BIRD WATCHER.”
Buddy and I meekly gave little waves as we continued down the road.

What lesson was learned that memorable day? Some people are living legends in their own minds.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-04-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #370
Nancy White Kelly

The dogwoods are blossoming. I am coming alive again after a seemingly long, depressing gray winter. Friends are helping.

One special couple took Buddy and me to a rousing musical in Franklin to celebrate our 45th anniversary. Another friend, with Buddy’s blessing, will soon be taking me bass fishing on Lake Chatuge.

This reminds me of childhood days. My daddy would awaken me at three a.m., throw some minnows in a rusty bucket and head to Lake Tunica in Mississippi. He could have taken any of my three brothers, but he took me.

My daddy and I were always close, but our fishing adventures strengthened that bond. Catching fish was sort of irrelevant. Being with my jovial father as the sun rose at daybreak is the fond memory that remains.

My oldest brother Charles is the family fishing fanatic. His love of fishing comes in a close second to his enthusiasm for hunting. In his living room, dining room, and every other room wife number five permits hang trophies from years of fishing and hunting. Actually he has married only four women. One he married twice. The last one, a keeper for twenty years, obviously loves my brother dearly.
I asked her once how many more animals Charles would have to hang in the house before she threw him out. She said she didn’t know for sure, but that the experiment was almost complete.

Everybody loves Charles. He is a comedian on par with the late Jerry Clower. He entertains us all with exaggerated tales from his fishing and hunting escapades. And, of course, he has a huge repertoire of jokes. This is one of many.

Two fellows are out fishing on the lake. A hearse and funeral procession passed the boat on a nearby road. One of the fellows stood up and held his fishing hat over his heart as the hearse passed. His buddy commented, "Golly, Harry, that was really nice and respectful."

Harry replied, "Well after all, we were married for 40 years."

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-04-09T04:56:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #369

Nancy White Kelly

Spring sprang. It’s hot already. Seems like each year we skip our highly anticipated season of spring. Now it seems a straight shot from winter to summer. I have been bagging up our winter clothes and trying to find the summer stash. Buddy thinks he put them in the attic, but they aren’t there. My creaky knees barely carried me up the ladder this year. Most likely it was my last trip ever to that space over the garage which houses a treasure trove of memories in cardboard boxes. In the hunt for the summer wardrobe, Buddy keeps finding pictures of younger, happier days.
There is a bit of sadness about growing old and knowing you aren’t going to ever have the energy or strength of days gone by. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Since the turn of the millennium, I have noticed an obvious decrease in his physical agility and endurance.

A decade ago he could work from sun up to sun down and barely break a sweat. Now he requires a nap every two or three hours. That would be okay except he insists that he can’t rest without me by his side. I don’t have time to take that many naps especially since I am not a morning person anyway. His day is half over before I am semi-conscious. By four in the afternoon I am at my peak and he is beginning his shut down mode. That would not be a problem except my Buddy insists he can’t sleep unless I am in bed beside him. What a dilemma. Do I wash clothes, do dishes and write out the bills or do I give in and go to bed with my lonely man at eight thirty?

Sometimes I lull Buddy to sleep at night and slip out of the bedroom to write, read or just do my own thing without interruption. That wouldn’t be a problem except he has this inner alarm that goes off when he can’t feel my body. Many a night he has wandered into my office sanctuary to tell me I need to come to bed and get my rest. Good grief. I’ve already had three naps since sun rise.

I still haven’t found the summer clothes. Buddy insists I gave them to either the Humane Society or Safe House for re-sale. I don’t think so, but it looks as if we will be shopping there ourselves for something to wear as the temperature edges higher each day.

The birthdays and the seasons come and go year end and year out. Once we were young and now we are old. Once we were the children, then the parents, and thereafter the grandparents. The cycle will continue after we are gone just as it has for centuries before.

Charlie just turned 30 and Noah, his youngest son, 3. Seems like only yesterday Charlie was 3 himself. Then we blinked.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-03-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #368
Nancy White Kelly

Think of a four-letter word. Gotcha!

No doubt your mind just conjured up something ugly that would have gotten your mouth washed out with soap in by-gone days. My parents weren’t prudes, but damn and hell were the two worst words I ever heard them say. Those rare utterances always surprised me.

After we married, Buddy became a walking lexicon for his naive wife. Being a Mississippi country boy who went straight from high school to the Navy, he was well acquainted with what I call gutter language.

Some unfamiliar words he interpreted had more than four letters. Buddy taught me that a “broad” was a non-complimentary term for a worldly woman and that a bitch was not only a mother dog but an uncomplimentary description of a nagging female. It didn’t take long for me to fondly attach myself to the term “lady.”

Toilet talk isn’t humorous to me either. When I was a teen-ager, my friends would tease me because I blushed at the slightest suggestion of anything lewd. Half a century later I still blush.
Some things were just meant to be private. Start talking about constipation or gassy exuberances and likely you’ll lose your audience. What occurs in the bathroom ought to stay within the confines of the necessary room built for that purpose.

I must now confess that a new four-letter word has entered my vocabulary…“Crud.” It isn’t in the dictionary, but I can define it easily because Buddy and I have both had this convoluted cold in the past few days.

He got the crud first. For days I endured his sneezing, coughing, laryngitis, dirty tissues and ill mood. Just as he was getting over the worst of his crud, my head started buzzing. Nasal passages dripped like a broken faucet and my voice sounded like a man’s.

Nothing about me is simple. I have had metastatic adenocarcinoma, histoplasmosis, renal azotemia, and an acute myocardial infarction. How could the four-lettered crud be so bad? Memory fades at my age, but I do believe this crud was the most complicated, congestive, cotton-picking cold in my lifetime.

While lightening may not strike twice in the same place, the crud does. We had hardly changed the bed sheets when Buddy relapsed. Round two of crud for him.

Buddy and I are polar opposites in many ways so it should not be too surprising that we handle illnesses differently. I prefer to suffer in silence. Should an unexpected sickness require that I disturb my doctor’s golf game you can be sure I am nigh unto death. Buddy, on the other hand, has his doctor’s cell phone number on speed dial.

My philosophy regarding something like the common crud is that “this too shall pass.” Buddy’s isn’t known for such optimism. When he picked up the phone last week, I quickly intercepted his call and sent the hearse back. As much as I dislike throwing money away on a cold that would likely cure itself, a doctor’s visit had to be cheaper than a funeral. It is always possible that this crud could be masquerading as the Swine flu.

The smiling doctor, who knows Buddy quite well, obliged him with a double-barreled shot, a prescription for antibiotics and a steep bill for sympathetic services.

CRUD!

2010-03-13T09:38:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #367

Nancy White Kelly

The ides of March have special meaning to me and not just because Julius Caesar was killed on that fifteenth day of the third month in 44 B.C.

In my family there are more birthdays in March than should be legally allowed in a single month. My only sister, eldest grandson and son Charlie have March birthdays. Until his death, we celebrated my father’s birthday on the 31st. All this translates into lots of cards, presents, parties and, yes, money in a period of just four weeks.

Of all those significant March dates, it is the ides that is circled in red. My grandmother, Claudia Lee Smart, and her identical twin sister, Maudie Mae, were born on March 15, in a small Mississippi town following the conclusion of the Civil War. Claudia and Maudie would be 122 years old this year. Claudia played the harmonica and the guitar and Maudie the mandolin. I can still here the harmonious strains of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”

Of all my heroes and heroines, my maternal grandmother ranks number one. She was the early widowed mother of five children. Without modern conveniences, she worked hard feeding and clothing her kids. For a few years, during the late forties and early fifties, she lived with my parents which was common then.

Grandma was one of eight children. She lived to be 99 and out-lived her siblings and buried three sons and a daughter. Though she grieved deeply at each passing, Grandma recharged quickly knowing that life goes on for the living.

Grandma had so many good characteristics. Never did I hear her say a foul word. She always looked for the good in people and found something positive to say. Her only alleged vice was to drink a shot of diluted whiskey when she took a cold. Her “hot toddy” she called it.

My grandmother wasn’t one to seek attention. Often her good deeds went unnoticed except by the family. I know of one instance where she gave every penny she had to help a family in need who promised to repay. Though she never got the money back, she wasn’t bitter. Her philosophy was that the Lord would provide for her needs and He did.

Before I could even read, I began accompanying Grandma to church every Sunday. The spiritual became very important to me also. Grandma never taught Sunday school, but because of her persuasive life I have. For more than fifty years I have taught the Bible to hundreds of individuals, young and old. I still teach Sunday school to this day. Grandma deserves the credit for that.

Who would have thought a little woman born in the late 1880’s with a big heart, sweet smile and kind spirit could reap influence in 2010?

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-02-26T07:58:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #366

Nancy White Kelly

Leather and lace. Is that an oxymoron or an example of material incongruence? Probably both.

Guns and curls reflect my personality which can run the gamut from seriously somber to insanely silly. Today I perpetuated that persona. I got a permanent at the beauty shop and a gun permit from the court house.

I enjoy being a girl, but I learned early on to hold my own among the guys. I had three brothers and no sister until the month I graduated from high school.

My oldest brother Charles and I wrestled, spit watermelon seeds, threw rocks and exchanged blows frequently while growing up. Charles wasn’t going to let his closest sibling be too girly. It was the era that Daddies worked, Mamas stayed home, and the kids played outside until dark.
Charles kept me busy doing his favorites things: street skating, hide-n-seek, and cork ball. We even played backyard football. That was until my Daddy snatched me out of a touch game at the age of twelve. He threatened my life if he ever caught me displaying my quarterback skills with the boys again. I didn’t understand then. I do now.

Nevertheless, my macho brother taught me many guy things. Thanks to him I can ride a motorcycle, gig frogs, and yes, even shoot a gun. Charles has killed hundreds of deer in his lifetime. I married my dear.

While Buddy is not an avid hunter, he is adamant about being capable of defending oneself. Our older son Charlie had his black belt at the age of twelve.

It wouldn’t behoove any evil-doer to attempt doing me harm. While a baseball bat is my weapon of choice, Buddy insists I keep my gun handy in the Ye Old Coin Shop. He vigilantly watches customers via a remote camera. If I couldn’t shoot an assailant, assuredly Buddy would.

And if Buddy or Charlie were not around, I take comfort that Rocky, our German shepherd, would protect me. His teeth can rip through leather. Any attacker had better guard his throat. It’s nice to be so loved.

Here I am in my twilight years wearing gray-tinged curls and packing heat. Reminds me of President Theodore Roosevelt’s famous quote,” Speak softly and carry a big stick.”

I enjoy being a lady and living. I have waylaid cancer and escaped hospice twice. They don’t call me the Living Lady for nothing.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-02-10T17:15:00.001-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #365 (posted early for newspaper deadline)

Nancy White Kelly

Valentine Day has come and gone. We don’t celebrate that day anymore though I still have the first Valentine card Buddy ever gave me. It is sweet. He promised to love me forever.

When we were engaged, but not yet married, I would sneak into his empty mobile home while he was working and leave love notes under his pillow. Soon he got the idea to leave me notes under his pillow so that I would find his first. Those days were fun and romantic.

We still give cards occasionally, sometimes silly and at other times serious. The ones that Buddy likes best are those that I make myself with a list of 21 things I love about him.

When God made Hiram Edward Kelly, He threw away the mold. If it were possible to talk the horns off a Billy goat, Buddy could. Last month our long distance bill was for 868 minutes and only one call was mine. If he can’t find somebody far or near to engage in conversation, he will talk to the dog. Rocky pretends to never tire of an old man’s tales.

Buddy is not only a non-stop conversationalist. He is comedic too. I guarantee he can get a laugh out of the sourest soul. When he transformed from the shy, Mississippi country boy to reincarnated Johnny Carson on steroids I cannot say. In spite of the evolution of his personality, I am still quite fond of the man.

How many men are the first to get up, raise the heat, fix two cups of steaming coffee and then nudge his wife awake? How many men start calling friends and family in a panic if their spouse is five minutes later than expected? How many men come through the kitchen and stop to put up the dishes before snacking? How many men put the toilet seat down every time? How many men compliment the cook after nearly forty-five years of eating the same recipes? Not many.

Buddy is as practical as he is witty. This last Valentine Day I asked him what expensive place he was going to take me. Without missing a beat he replied, “the gas station.”

We didn’t go anywhere. Who need a fancy restaurant, a box of candy, or a dozen roses when you have my Buddy?

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-01-29T17:30:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #364

Nancy White Kelly

It is said that to laugh is better than to cry…or in my case to murder. Last Thanksgiving my Buddy gave our dog the raw dressing awaiting its turn in the oven. The dressing was in the plastic bowl that usually houses our meal left-overs. These scraps are eventually added to Rocky’s dry food. I merrily laughed at that holiday fiasco. Everybody is entitled to one mistake.

Yesterday I decided to make my hubby a chicken and rice casserole. I boiled the chicken on the stove top and removed the pan so the chicken could cool for later de-boning. While the broccoli and rice cooked in the microwave, Sam, our Siamese cat, and I grabbed a quick afternoon nap.
Sure enough, Buddy did it again. He gave Rocky the big pan of chicken parts sitting in succulent broth. My delusional husband wrongly concluded that I had been so compassionate during that cold streak as to boil fresh chicken for our German shepherd. I am generally a nice lady, but not that nice.

I held up an imaginary butcher knife in the fist of my hand imitating Norman the maniac in Psycho. I teasingly told Buddy that I felt like doing him in. Hack. Hack. He laughed and I laughed.

Mark Twain says it well:

"The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. The moment it arises, all your irritations and resentments slip away and the sunny spirit takes their place."

Buddy has been forgiven, but hopefully an acquaintance I shall call Sue will not repeat her faux paus.

Sue was waiting for a friend in a busy restaurant when her body told her that she desperately needed to pass gas. Sue didn’t want to leave her table empty while searching for the restroom. She glanced around to access her surroundings. Seated guests were chatting and the house music was playing really, really loud.

The petite and usually discreet Sue timed the expulsion of pressing gas to the rhythmic beat of the music.After a couple of songs, Sue began to feel better. She daintily unwrapped her cloth napkin and noticed that almost everybody in the room was glaring at her. It was at that moment Sue realized, to her chagrin, that she was listening to music on her iPod.

So my advice to all the Sues in Readerland, laugh aloud, say Mia Culpa, and observe your surroundings before you pass gas. And to my Buddy, the third time you mistake my grub for dog food, you will not be laughing.

nancyk@windstream.net

2010-01-15T16:50:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #363

Nancy White Kelly

My church is a comforting place. It is nice to know that not only is my spiritual heart covered, but my physical one as well. When I look upward over my left shoulder on Sundays, I quickly spot my cardiologist smiling down from the balcony.

If either Buddy or I have a heart attack while straining on the high notes of Beulah Land, our mutual heart doctor could be performing CPR in less than sixty seconds. If he were busy doing quadruple by-passes somewhere in Atlanta, it is reassuring to know that our backs (and hearts) are still covered.

In our church, there are more nurses per square foot than inches. Our former family doctor, now retired, sits just a few rows behind us each week. Another physician friend, a retired obstetrician, also sits in the congregation. It is highly doubtful that Buddy or I would need his special services.

But, our hearts…well, maybe. Buddy and I both have had a few problems with our tickers. If cardiac arrest were to occur at church, I suspect that half the congregation would immediately be on their hushed cell phones dialing 911.

Being that the parking lot of the church adjoins the parking lot of the local hospital, it would seem impractical to call an ambulance. The men who drive the courtesy carts could deliver a victim to the ER faster than an EMT could start his engine, that is, if the patient was conscious. Jenny Craig and I have never met so pity the guy who might try to carry my dead weight over his shoulder.

One of these days the death angel will succeed in ushering one of us out of this world. Buddy and I have no concerns.
Our former Sunday school teacher has become a masterful funeral coordinator. He and his wife can pull together a meal for an extended family in hours.

While our current pastor is relatively new to the area, I knew his fine family in another era of my life. Even if he weren’t available, our former pastor should be. He would have plenty of colorful stories to tell, especially if it were Buddy in the casket. My favorite is the time Buddy suddenly donned my Easter hat and hugged the startled pastor in front of God, cable TV, and everybody.

When the church bell tolls for either Buddy or me, we are ready. An attorney friend in the congregation has already prepared the Kelly’s last will and testament. We will be buried in our pre-paid plots in the nearby church cemetery.

Yep, Hiram and Nancy Kelly can sit in church and not worry a smirching bit about the now or the hereafter. When the roll is called up yonder, we’ll be there by the wonderful, but undeserved grace of our sovereign God.

And that’s the truth!

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-12-29T17:41:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #362

Nancy White Kelly

The year of 2009 may go down as one of Tiger’s worst years, but it will certainly be remembered as one of my best ones. With metastatic cancer, any full year past diagnosis can be considered a good year. In spite of the big C, I look back and think of all that transpired these last twelve months and I am truly grateful. Nobody in my family died. Granted, Buddy and I lost a couple of good friends, but only temporarily. My Christian faith keeps me up-beat, knowing that this life is not the end, just a new beginning in foreverland.

We now enter the second decade of the new millennium. Remember Y2K and all the up-roar ten years ago? Most people were hoarding beans and rice. My unsuspecting spouse never knew that I had cases of diet cola in the attic, my one addiction that he has never liked. My response to his nagging is “Choose your poison.”

At least my obsession is fizzy caffeine in a can and not some gritty-orange fiber drink that you must mix. The last sound I hear every night, and certainly not a romantic one, is that of a rattling metal spoon in a glass of water. Gulp. Gulp.

A decade ago the Y2K bug was considered a clicking time bomb for all major computer programs. When the minute hand ticked Jan 1, 2000, no great catastrophe occurred. Almost every bank worked fine, no major power outages were reported, airplanes still flew and the whole world went on with its normal life. The sky didn’t fall after all.

Now I hear buzz about the year 2012. True, the Mayan calendar ends on 12/21/2012. The dooms-day speculation is surging. While I do believe in an up-coming apocalypse, we must part ways when discussing dates. My Bible says that not even the angels know when this event will occur.
Until then, I live day by day, appreciating the good that occurred in the past year. There were several notable markers. My cancer scans were stable. No new tumors were found.

I wrote a short essay and won a trip to London and to the Holy Land, accompanied by son Charlie. The Ye Ole Coin Shop had its best year thus far. A fresh coat of paint improved the look of our aging house. We made several new friends. The list could go on and on.

I dare not gloat. We have several family members and acquaintances who have lost jobs. Some may lose their homes. It is our Christian duty to help the truly needy. I had much rather be the giver than the givee any day.

In my six and a half decades of living, I have come to believe that some of the most generous people are among the poorest. A true judge of character is how a person treats the down-and-outer and the least among them. To whom do we readily speak? Where do we sit when there is a choice of seats?

Recently a customer bought a widow’s mite from our coin shop for a friend. It was a tiny piece of embossed metal, a genuine, but crudely stamped Roman coin from the historical era of Jesus. The mite was all the poor lady had to give and she gave it cheerfully. Compare that to the ostentatious announcements of generosity by our contemporaries. Giving to worthy causes is good, of course, but must celebrities promote their philanthropy so publically?

Two of the best gifts I received this year were semi-anonymous, no recognition wanted. One was a check for $500 that helped a young man fulfill a dream. The other was a donation to use for heat which brought grateful tears from the sick recipient. You can’t out-give God.

Happy New Year, readers. In 2010, dare to share.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-12-10T08:15:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #361

Nancy White Kelly

Thanksgiving has passed. I secretly vowed to transfer the joy of preparing Thanksgiving dinner to my two daughter-in-laws since it is written in stone that everybody comes to Granny’s for Christmas.

For genuinely good reasons, the daughter-in-laws escaped the intimidating task of cooking the big meal. I was again the main chef. Buddy did his part to make sure that it was a memorable day. Late Thanksgiving Eve, he gave Rocky, our German Shepherd, the huge bucket of sage-covered cornbread, minus the cooked celery and onions that remained in the fridge.

It was an honest mistake. I use that same pink plastic pan everyday to hold our meal left-overs which Buddy adds to Rocky’s dry food in the evening. That pink bucket was a take-home gift from my last stay in the hospital.

A trip to the grocery store for corn meal and some hasty cooking at high temperature brought a new batch of cornbread in time to make the dressing. In spite of the tenuous beginning, Thanksgiving turned out to be a good day full of good food and laughs.

For two weeks Buddy has dutifully finished every version of turkey casserole imaginable without complaining only to see me bring in another big bird for its turn in the oven next week. Tori and Ginger may get their chance to cook in 2010. Perhaps I could lighten up the occasion by doing what a lady friend did one year.

Susan was asked by daughter Lisa to help prepare her first ever Thanksgiving turkey. On the big day, Lisa found she had no cranberries in the cupboard. She rushed to the store to get some.

As if on cue, Susan mischievously took action. She removed a Rock Cornish hen from her big purse. She hastily removed the raw stuffing from the turkey and placed the little Cornish pullet inside. She packed the open hole with some of the displaced dressing.

When Lisa returned from the store, she placed the turkey in the oven. Mother and daughter merrily chatted while the men watched football. Soon Lisa’s sister arrived with her husband and two children. The magic hour arrived.

Susan placed the green beans and assorted dishes on the table. Facing the counter, Lisa began to scoop out the cooked stuffing from the turkey breast into a fancy bowl. Her spoon wouldn’t go further. She couldn't figure out what was stopping it. Susan gleefully offered assistance. She put her hand in the turkey and pulled out the Rock Cornish hen. Lisa screamed and jumped back.

“What have I done?" Lisa wailed as tears welled.

”I just cooked a pregnant turkey.”

As the laughter roared Lisa’s husband explained that turkeys lay eggs. Besides, Tom Turkey was a male!

Every Thanksgiving there ought to be a dog house handy for the likes of Buddy and Susan.

Merry Christmas!

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-11-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #360

Nancy White Kelly

I don’t remember the title, but I recall the line: “When he was good, he was really good. But when he was bad, he was really bad.”

Charlie’s boys are still very young, just two and four. Like most grandmothers, I dote on them and Bobby’s two as well. I have never had a serious confrontation with any of them. Just fun, games and secret Granny snacks. M & M’s are a special treat. All four grandchildren know about my long, blue surprise box kept in the den. It holds a variety of boy toys and glitzy baubles that a ten-year-old girl couldn’t resist. Unusually good behavior or exceptional manners can earn a trip to Granny’s box. Sometimes it doesn’t take a reason at all.

Last week Tori needed to take Micah to a doctor in Atlanta for a follow-up visit. Buddy and I were enlisted to keep two-year-old Noah in Cornelia. We had a delightful time making snakes out of clay, threading large beads and just romping around the house.

Later that afternoon, Micah and Tori returned from their tiresome day. While listening to Tori tell about the recommendation of the neurologist, Micah took advantage of our inattention. He slipped out the back door into the carport and mounted his Daddy’s parked motorcycle. Amidst adamant protest, Tori removed the pint-sized Evel Knievel from the bike. I explained how sad I would be if that heavy motorcycle fell on him. Nothing that I said registered positively with Micah. My usually complacent grandson kicked me. It wasn’t a premeditated kick, just poor impulse control.

Tori scolded Micah and sent him to his room. A few minutes later I asked Tori’s permission to talk with him privately thinking that he had settled down by now and could be reasoned with. That turned out to be wishful thinking.

Micah wasn’t in a peace-making mode. He attempted to kick me again, this time intentionally. Instinctively, I swatted his bottom a couple of times with my hand. Though he looked shocked at my first-ever spanking of a grandchild, he gave no evidence of remorse. If he had been my son, I would have carried it a step further. But I know my role as grandmother isn’t chief disciplinarian and backed off. I told Micah I was disappointed in his behavior and left him to sit in his room.

Though Charlie would be home very soon from his moon-lighting job after teaching middle school, Buddy and I decided to postpone visiting with him this day. We wanted to get over the mountains before darkness settled.
We told Noah good-bye and asked our frustrated daughter-
in-law to tell Micah that we loved him and hoped our next visit would go better.

Hardly two hours had passed when our phone rang at home. It was Charlie. He said Micah wanted to tell me something. I sensed what was coming. After a brief silence, the words came.

“I am sorry, Granny.”

I am not sure what it took to get Micah to this point and never asked. He sounded so sweet and sincere. I took the opportunity to remind Micah that it was never okay to kick, especially his grandmother. I thanked Micah for apologizing and emphasized that I still loved him and would always love him no matter how badly he acted. However, good behavior pleased me more.

It was over now. Lesson learned. Clean slate.

For some reason I don’t think Micah will kick me again. When he is good, he is very good.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-11-13T11:05:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #359

Nancy White Kelly

Seems as if I just finished carving the pumpkin. Next on the agenda is Thanksgiving. Then, of course, comes Christmas. I do wish the holidays were spaced further apart. If I were appointed Czar of Holidays, the dates for Thanksgiving and Christmas would be at least six months apart. I would eliminate the witchy motif of Halloween.

Thanksgiving is my favorite annual holiday. No presents needed, just the presence of loved ones. What a special time to re-focus and reflect on life’s blessings. Indeed I am grateful. Once you lose your health and regain it, each day becomes a special addition.

Spending time outside the United States this year reminded me of how fortunate I am to be an American. Any of us could have been born in a remote tribal village on the other side of the world. Buddy and I feel privileged to live in the mountains half-way to heaven. What else is there to desire?

Sure. Who wouldn’t want a million dollars in small bills? But our needs are met and we are content.

What adult with a child doesn’t love Christmas? Being born on Christmas Eve destined me to love that season. If only there was a wand to zap the commercialism. Finding scarecrows and reindeer competing for shelf space in the summer time does not jive with my reminiscence of Christmases past.

If Christ was truly born in December, I might relish the spiritual aspect even more. Biblical scholars insist that Jesus was born in the spring. Well, we can always pretend and we do, from the fantasy of Santa Claus to the exact December 25th birth date of baby Jesus.

There are some things that are certain. We can depend on the I.R.S. to bring us back to earth in January with those dreaded tax forms. Seems like we just did those darn things a month ago. Buddy and I have receipts for 2009 jammed into an over-flowing cardboard box with no semblance of order. The good intentions of being more prepared for the next tax season are turning out to be just that…intentions.

But, like dear Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow. I’m off to find a dead turkey before the family comes. My wish for you:

May your dressing be tasty
May your Tom turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!
nancyk@windstream.net

2009-10-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #358

Nancy White Kelly

This concludes the travel log of the fantastic trip Charlie and I received as a result of my winning an essay contest sponsored by British Airways. After a greatly anticipated journey from Atlanta to New York to London, we were finally in historic Jerusalem.

The first day was a bust. The narrow streets that were originally intended for donkey travel have not improved much in 2000 years. After returning the rental car to the airport terminal in Tel Aviv, we walked or took taxis driven mostly by Middle Eastern mad men. Communication with drivers was in Southern Anguish. Jerusalem is not laid out in orderly fashion. We paid mucho shekels for each ride and no doubt were exploited for our directional ignorance.

One exception was a Messianic Jewish man named Adam. He observed red-faced Charlie huffing while climbing the Mount of Olives. He offered our out-of-shape son a free ride to the top which he readily accepted. If either of us had known how much walking this tour of Israel would require, we would have prepared by running the Boston Marathon.

Adam was quite knowledgeable of biblical geography and rattled off fascinating facts. Charlie jotted notes. An hour later he rushed into our motel room demanding that I come immediately. Even though I had taken the day off to recoup, I was reasonably dressed. As we hustled down the forty-four stairs, Charlie explained that Adam was going to take us on a personal tour of Bethlehem and connect us with two of his friends. I quietly sat in the back seat trying to decipher Charlie’s earlier cryptic notes. Even though I am a retired educator, it was difficult deciding if his writing was ancient Arabic or the scribbling of a dyslexic second-grader. As we traveled to Bethlehem, the two young men talked enthusiastically and non-stop about the geography, people and events described in the Bible.

A heavily armed guard at the entrance to Bethlehem recognized Adam and waved him through security. Because of the known political and religious unrest in this region, this casualness briefly raised my antennae, but I remained quiet. As the taxi maneuvered narrow streets, the poverty in this quaint historical town was noticeable. Beggars sat on street corners and scraggly children explored the trash piles.

Adam stopped the cab in front of a tiny storefront that looked more like a cave. He honked his horn and out came the proprietor, a small Jewish man who welcomed us like old friends. His aunt offered us cold drinks. I admired the jewelry and the knick-knacks made of intricately carved olive wood. Several times I asked prices, but the aunt was evasive. Instead she offered an obviously well-practiced spiel regarding the artistic skill required to make the souvenirs. This was frustrating because I had no idea of a price range. Was the silver necklace with purple stones five dollars or five thousand?

Adam waved the man and his aunt away and said we would shop later. He wanted to take us to meet other friends. One was the over-seer of the stable site where Jesus Christ was believed to have been born. Many years of renovation had turned the building into an ornate, church-like sanctuary. Long lines of people awaited an opportunity to see the spot where the manger once was. To our surprise, Adam spoke to another friend who shooed all the other visitors back. He motioned for Charlie and me to touch the large, ruby-colored star that marked the historical spot of Christ’s birth. The aggressive manager then grabbed our cameras and photographed each of us. I was puzzled and embarrassed by the preferential treatment. There were many old and lame who obviously had stood in the line for hours for their turn to view the stable site.

Adam must have much influence in Bethlehem. My guess is that he routinely brings in supposedly rich customers from America. Unfortunately, this time he picked a young school teacher and his retired mother who couldn’t give the $3000 requested later that day for “the cause.” When Charlie finally convinced Adam, the stable manager, and the shop owner that we brought little money with us, they offered to take a credit card.

While the needs of the poor in Bethlehem are legitimate, Charlie and I felt like gullible puppets who just had our strings rudely jerked. We rode back to our hotel in Jerusalem in noticeable silence. Charlie paid Adam and we never saw him again.
By the week’s end, we were able to visit most of the sites that are significant to Christians. The one site that impressed us both was the burial tomb of Christ which was provided by Joseph of Arimathea at the time of his death.
During a small span of time between tour groups, Charlie slipped into the stone tomb alone. He remained in solemn solitude for several minutes reflecting on the awesomeness of the moment.

In describing that experience to me later, Charlie beamed as he reported, “Jesus was not there.”

Mother and son smiled in agreement.

“I know,” I responded with a nod. “He is risen.”

Being a newspaper column limits me from giving all the details about our trip. I could fill a book about our inspiring journey to the Holy Land. However, it is time to move on to other adventures of this Living Lady.

Shalom, ya’ll.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-10-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #357

Nancy White Kelly

After an adventuresome beginning in New York City and London, Charlie and I finally arrived in Tel Aviv at 5:00 in the morning. While the plane ticket was the prize of the essay contest, all other expenses in Israel were mine. Of top of that, the IRS gets to tax the total value of the prize package which is estimated at $5000.

Charlie seamlessly transitioned to the lead role on this trip. Now that he is grown, the dynamics of our relationship has changed. While still Mother-Son, we presently function on an adult-adult level. Knowing that Israel is a predominantly male-oriented culture, I gave him the credit card and cash to handle. Charlie didn’t take advantage of his parent’s money, but I did sense a bit of unfettered joy as he slid the card for one transaction after another

To rent a car or not rent a car…that was the question. The pro was that we could travel at our own pace when we wanted. The negative was that we weren’t sure of the geography. That turned out to be the least of our transportation problems.

We went with plan A which was to rent a car in Tel Aviv and return it in one week. My first inclination that this might be a mistake was when the car rental representative noted the many dings on the sedan that we were renting. This was to ensure that we would not be charged for previous damage when the car was returned. So many dings on a virtually new vehicle raised my internal antenna.

I signed the papers and handed Charlie the car key. Driving in modern Tel Aviv wasn’t bad, but when we arrived in Jerusalem, navigating the roads became a nightmare. Road signs were very poor and neither of us read Hebrew. Lanes were practically non-existent. Cars, only inches apart, moved ahead sporadically. Honking horns jangled my nerves. This was normal “get moving” communication for Israeli and Arabic drivers but still seemed rude to this southern lady. Motor scooters zigzagged through the tangled traffic.

After a few close encounters, Charlie made the decision to take the rental car back to the terminal and start over. I concurred. Afterwards, we rode a public bus thirty miles to Jerusalem. Charlie handed the bus driver a map. He motioned for us to exit the bus a few stops later. We had no clue which direction to walk. We stopped several pedestrians, but none spoke English well enough to understand our request for directions. In exasperation, Charlie hailed a taxi that cost us $20 for six blocks. We learned quickly that we would need shekels as the American dollar was not a popular item.

Score a minus for Day one in Jerusalem. All we accomplished was to find our modest bed and breakfast inn which was recommended by a friend. The cost was $130 a night in American dollars which is reasonable here in the states, but on the low end in Old Jerusalem. Our accommodation was a simple room with two single beds and a tiny bathroom. The surprise was that there was 44 steps to our second floor abode. We found that elevators were considered a silly, unnecessary luxury.

Walking and climbing stairs became our mandatory daily exercise. Pounding hearts and sweaty bodies hid behind two-day-old clothes. We had elected to travel light due to the $20 per bag surcharge by the airlines which adds up when you change planes eight times round-trip from Atlanta to New York to London to Tel Aviv.

Tourism is the main source of income in Old Jerusalem. Whether they like each other or not, the Arabs and Jews cooperate enough to keep the area calm enough that people continue to visit. We encountered busses full of tourists from many other countries including Australia.

We learned a lot from our taxi drivers. There are certain cities that most Jews will not go. For example, Bethlehem. There were also some sites that Jews were not permitted to visit like the contentious Temple Dome. Years ago Buddy and I were able to enter the sanctuary of the Dome of the Rock. Presently it is controlled by Muslims.

Charlie and I staked out our itinerary for the next day. It would start at the sacred sites in the Old City. Finding our way there was a challenge. What the colorful inn brochures described as a ten minute walk would actually be three miles.
The next morning I was awakened by the distant morning prayers of Muslims droning the chilly air. Breakfast at the inn was a bit unusual for us southerners. No eggs, bacon or biscuits. Certainly no grits. On the buffet were olives, onions, various non-descript greenery, a vinegary dressing, boiled eggs in the shell, and always bread. I was thankful for the toaster. I could at least have toast and jelly with my stout coffee.

One morning the toaster was noticeable absent. When I inquired about it, the Jewish owner shook his head vehemently saying, “Shabbat! Shabbat!” Apparently no electrical appliances are allowed on the Jewish Sabbath. Charlie and I had much more to learn.

Shalom, Ya'll - Part III (to be continued.)

2009-10-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #356
Nancy White Kelly

Shalom, ya’ll – Part I

The Living Lady is back in America! In spite of internal squabbles, the USA is still the best country in the world. Kiss the ground and thank a soldier.

Charlie and I flew over 13,000 miles, changed planes 8 times, and walked at least 25 miles. That would be quite a feat even if my medical records didn’t include metastatic cancer, kidney failure, two heart attacks and a pair of artificial knees.

Let me briefly up-date you on the reason for this adventure. As a Bible teacher for some fifty-plus years, I have become somewhat familiar with the geography of the ancient Middle East. Twice Buddy and I have made the journey to the Holy Land, first in 1972 and then again in 2003. It is impossible for a tourist to absorb such rich history in two visits. I have longed to return one more time.

There is a spiritual connection to this cradle of civilization that is difficult to explain. The Holy Land is both a physical and vicarious crossroad of the heart and mind that bridges humanity’s past and future.

Through a casual entry in a business-related essay contest provided by British Airways, I won the Grand prize trip to London as well as a ticket to the destination of my choice. That other location was an easy decision– Israel.

In addition, I could take a traveling companion. That choice was easy too. Buddy and I agreed that this should be our older son, Charlie, who has often expressed a desire to visit those biblical sites that he also has taught about.

The awarded trip started in New York City, so Charlie and I had to get there on our own time and dime. Wouldn’t you know that the first flight we were planning to take out of Atlanta was over-booked? The one other plane leaving at night was a hopper through Indianapolis and would land at an alternate New York airport. It was a no-brainer. If we were to make the gifted trip that started at 7:00 a.m. the next morning, we had would fly to LaGuardia and then take a taxi to J.F.K. We arrived with no sleep and yet six hours to kill.

Charlie and I wearily walked around the JFK airport, baggage in hand, looking for a quiet place to park our bodies. We came upon an empty, ecumenical chapel and made ourselves comfortable on the floor. I am sure God didn’t mind that we caught a few winks in that dark and quiet refuge. It has been my observation that people sleep in church quite often.

We arrived in London on the chartered flight and were chauffeured to a five-star hotel. Business and political dignitaries addressed the group of winners. They enthusiastically encouraged us to consider expanding our businesses to London and other world cities. This courting was amusing to Charlie and me as the Ye Old Coin Shop isn’t exactly a Fortune 500 business. Far from it. Buddy and I operate a small coin shop located in a tiny mountain town of north Georgia. On a really good day we may have five customers.

By noon Charlie and I completed our contest obligations and were free to tour London before our late evening flight to Tel Aviv. We navigated the bus system through odd-sounding streets such as Castle & Elephant.

Charlie has long been an admirer of Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the great London preacher of the 1800’s who is still known as the “Prince of Preachers.” It is estimated that Spurgeon preached to around 10,000,000 people in his lifetime, often up to 10 times a week. Charlie wanted to see the Metropolitan Tabernacle that Spurgeon pastored for 38 years as well as his grave site. Mission accomplished.
With that site crossed off our short London list, it was my turn to pick. I chose Buckingham Palace. The queen was not available for tea, but we did enjoy observing the red-coated guards as we ambled the 350 acres of Hyde Park.

Charlie and I both desired to see Big Ben, but there was no time to spare. We hurried to the hotel, gathered our luggage and headed to Heathrow Airport for the last portion of our trek. We arrived in Tel Aviv, Israel, at 5:00 a.m.

Next destination: Jerusalem.

To be continued…

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-09-03T10:04:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #355

Nancy White Kelly

Why is it that we pray for something and then act surprised when those prayers are answered? Maybe because we believe the blessings of God aren’t deserved.

In spite of short-comings, I have been blessed immeasurably during my lifetime, especially during the last half of it. Hospice didn’t get the opportunity to ease me into eternity. My metastatic cancer wasn’t as imminently terminal as predicted.

A couple of years ago a new problem occurred. It is rare that a person in total kidney failure gets to kiss dialysis good-bye. Having a date with a machine three times a week was more discouraging to me than the cancer. My kidneys defied the odds as God adjusted my earthly graduation date. It has been my goal ever since to make use of this extended time.

On Sunday mornings I teach an adult Bible study class. Several times I have mentioned that I was praying for one more opportunity to go to Jerusalem. While God was fully aware of my desire, I did not truly expect the fulfillment of such a lavish request. After all, Buddy and I have been to the Holy Land twice. The last trip was a surprise gift from a reader who assumed he was granting the last request of a dying lady.

Several weeks ago I read a newspaper ad announcing an essay contest that a major airline was offering. Small business owners were invited to write an essay explaining the benefits of face-to-face interaction with customers.
Buddy and I own Ye Old Coin Shop, so I dashed off an essay of less than 500 words promoting the benefit of doing business with hand-shakes rather than using impersonal technology.

It was a hurried entry. Apparently I didn’t have much confidence in my writing ability or my chance of winning an international writing contest. In my haste, I failed to save the essay to the hard drive. If I printed a hard copy, only God knows where it is now.

Yes, I won. There were more than 10,000 entries. The Grand Prize was a trip for two to England, consultation with top business leaders, and then a ticket to any other destination of choice. That was an instantaneous decision: Jerusalem, here I come.

Since Buddy has seen the Holy Land, he offered his seat to our son who is a serious Bible student and sometimes writer. Charlie has expressed his desire to go to Israel many times. Being a school teacher with two small sons, the likelihood of that was slim unless he won the lottery which he doesn’t play. Since neither Tori nor Buddy can accompany us on the magic carpet, this trip will be a one-to-one, mother-son experience that most moms of adult children can only imagine.

This will be my last column for September. Charlie and I leave soon for the first leg of our journey from Atlanta to New York City to London. He wants to see the church where Charles Spurgeon preached. I want to have tea with the queen. Then, shalom, we are off to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

No doubt Buddy will be lonesome while we are away. If you are in our phone directory, expect a call. While he is talking, Charlie and I will be walking on hallowed ground.

Be sure of what you pray for. God moves in mysterious ways.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-08-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

Journal of Living Lady #354b

Nancy White Kelly

Huh? What did you say?

The dog needs braces? The dog is a racist? The dog likes to race.

Bingo.

Ever had a similar dialog with your spouse?

Buddy’s hearing loss over the last few years has gotten progressively worse. It passed the funny stage long ago. Spousal frustration is more like it, especially when my lovable, but stubborn husband won’t wear his hearing aids.

Sometimes Buddy nods when I am speaking to him, pretending to hear but knowing better than to ask what I said the third time. My patience wears thin with Buddy when he doesn’t cooperate by wearing those hearing devices that he just had to have.

Three years ago Buddy went on a tangent about wanting hearing aids. I didn’t doubt that he needed them. But I know my man. We’d buy those expensive ear plugs and in no time the volume-enhancing gadgets would end up in the bureau drawer.

Buddy promised that he would wear them faithfully. Though it was a lot of money for us retirees, I gave in. It might save our other-wise stable and happy marriage.

Buddy got the hearing aids. He hated them from the start. He said that they didn’t fit right and he had difficulty adjusting the tiny knobs. One Sunday, in the midst of the pastor’s sermon, the annoying aids repeatedly screamed worse than a high-pitched little girl.

Sure enough. Just as I predicted, the hearing aids stayed in Buddy’s underwear drawer most of the time. Thereafter, Buddy insisted that I mumbled. I complained that he wasn’t listening. Our daily communication suffered.

Finally I consented to his getting a better set of hearing aids. It took a few weeks, but they finally arrived. He liked them. I liked them.

Then I suddenly noticed the incessant “huhs” again. He meekly admitted that he had lost the new pair. To add insult to grief, he had also misplaced his cell phone.

The hunt began. We checked anywhere he might have stuck the little black pouch that housed the hearing aids and for the little blue case that housed his cell phone. No success.

This usually jovial husband of mine became depressed. No cell phone. No hearing aids. For a non-stop, talkative man like my Buddy, life was intolerable.

Last week the hearing specialist fitted Buddy with hearing aids, pair 3. They are exactly like the second pair. For now, Buddy is a happy camper. I am a happy spouse who again enjoys hearing humor.

During a January revival an evangelist asked the people in line what they needed. One man's request was for his hearing. The evangelist put his hand on the man’s ear, prayed for him and then asked him, "How's your hearing?"

The man replied, "I don't know. It's not until next Tuesday.”

2009-08-06T17:10:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #354

Nancy White Kelly

The saddest part of living in a retirement area is seeing your older friends grow even older. Fifteen years ago we moved from the southern suburbs of Atlanta to the north Georgia mountains. Except for a work acquaintance, we knew nobody.

In the ensuing years, new acquaintances evolved into dear friends. We have shared meals, laughed, cried, traveled, and worshipped with our substitute family.

Lately, we have noticed that our inventory of cherished friends is dwindling. If mortuaries offered frequent funeral miles, we would have enough for a trip somewhere far away.

Old age and death fascinate me. I suppose that is because I have managed to postpone the dying part thanks to or in spite of doctors. Wish I had a remedy for taxes. Unfortunately one must die to escape them. That is a lose-win situation.

Recently an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in Nebraska. It was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found a poem he had penned. It spoke volumes to me and deserves to be shared.

THE CRABBY MAN

What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you'd try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a sock or a shoe?

Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.

A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap.
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide and secure a happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future and shudder with dread..
For my young are all rearing kids of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. Grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living life o’er again.

I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people. Open and see.
Not a crabby old man. Look closer. See ME!!

Readers, I am off to the nursing home. Will you come too?

2009-07-21T14:20:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #352

Nancy White Kelly

Breaking news from Bill Couterie, legendary movie producer: Economic hard times have hit Hollywood.

Bill bought the rights to my book, Journal of a Living Lady, a couple of years ago with plans for making a movie or documentary of my roller-coaster life. Cancer had hit his family big time and he wanted to spotlight the battle and the warrior.
Several months ago Bill wrote that he was shopping around for financial backers, but the timing isn’t right. Bankers are holding tight to purse strings. A story about a cancer survivor, whose faith helped her beat tremendous odds, not once, but twice, can be inspiring, but not enough for backers to ante up several million dollars in a struggling economy. The money people Bill had hoped would make the project happen have backed down, at least for now.

“Making a living” has become top priority,” Bill says. “But I haven’t forgotten you.”

It was no big surprise that the documentary is on hold. I have always believed the most appropriate time to name a street or make a movie about a person’s life is post mortem. That way, the facts are all in and nothing embarrassing will happen down the road to cause regrets.

It was fun thinking about it being on the big screen. Yet, being a movie star has never been an ambition of mine. Well, maybe once. While taking tap dance lessons during my elementary school years, I pretended to audition as the new Shirley Temple. Unfortunately my hair was too straight to make the cut.

I have been on television a few times. The receiving of the George Washington Medal of Honor for journalism from the Freedom Foundation in Valley Forge was televised. WSB asked me to do a commentary once. Local affiliates of NBC and ABC did a brief news item about my notorious appearance on the Oprah Winfrey show. The telling of that humorous experience is in my book and on the original blog: www.angelfire.com/bc/nancykelly

I don’t think any of this has gone to my head. I am just a southern lady who happened upon notoriety of sorts. I still speak to everybody and give spontaneous hugs. Buddy and I joke about the paparazzi lurking everywhere.

I may not make the movies, at least not in my lifetime. It will be a fun story to tell the grandchildren when they get older.

“Once upon a time your Granny was known as the Living Lady.”

2009-07-09T07:48:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #351

Nancy White Kelly

I haven’t screamed so loudly since I was a ten-year-old running away from a charging bull in a Mississippi pasture. My voice is still squeaky. It all happened so suddenly.

I was sitting at my computer catching up on email when Chipper, our vocal Cockatiel, starting shrieking new bird talk from his front porch perch. Sam, the cat, was purring on my lap so I knew those two were not engaged in claw and beak warfare.

Our small harem of pet hens and the sole rooster roam freely in the yard during the day. From the frantic commotion, it was obvious that something bad was happening or about to. I pushed Sam from my lap and ran out the back door.

Rocky, our sixteen-month-old German shepherd, was having the best chase game of his young life. He had the upper paw. Henny Penny was hemmed up against the fence with no place to go.
I hurried to the creek edge, yelling and running at the same time. It was time for an instant battlefield decision. Charge through the muddy creek water to pull Rocky away from the defenseless hen or hope he would obey the new “come” command we had been practicing.

“Come.” Rocky glanced toward me, obviously annoyed.

“Rocky, come,” I screamed again.

He cocked his head again. What nerve I had to ask him to stop playing and return to his mistress. After the third vocal command in an octave I didn’t know I had, Rocky obeyed. He released the chicken and jumped across the creek. Feathers flowed from his smiling mouth as he sat before me.

I know I was supposed to congratulate him and get all mushy about his canine obedience, but I wasn’t in the mood. Do you give a lollipop to a two-year old who returns to you rather than run into the street in front of a coming car?

I was glad Rocky came, but mad at the same time. My heart was still pounding as I drug him by his collar to his night pen behind the Coin Shop. He was confused at my lack of affirmation and affection, but his psychological well-being wasn’t too concerning to me right now. Henny Penny needed my attention.

I rushed back but was unable to get to her without wading the creek. The little red hen was alive, but sat motionless in obvious shock. Other than a vacant patch of naked skin on her back, there didn’t seem to be any serious damage done.

I decided Henny Penny could wait there until Buddy returned from town. I headed for our cool bedroom to recuperate. What an unexpected, adventurous morning.

I remembered the last time I had such a rush of adrenaline. Buddy and I were ruthless tennis players at the height of the tennis craze in the 70’s. We enjoyed week-end amateur tournaments. The most memorable one was when we dueled with an 80-year-old tennis player and her friend. It was a random draw. Buddy and I smugly grinned, assured that the first round of doubles would be a rout.

The hunched-back little lady and her senior friend could have passed for escapees from the Old Folks Home. No problem. They beat us handily. We meekly left the court in disgrace with a life lesson well-learned. Never underestimate an opponent.

Rocky is fine. The trainer comes tomorrow to help us teach him that chicken-chasing is a “no-no.” As for Henny Penny, we haven’t found her yet.

2009-06-27T10:14:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #350
Nancy White Kelly

You probably know the old saw that everything happens in threes. I’m not superstitious, but I if I were, I would be concerned about entering my third week of threes.
A couple of weeks ago, in rapid succession, Buddy had a crick in his neck that was so bad he saw a chiropractor twice and a medical doctor once. The doctor gave him a shot in his neck that hurt but helped. $$$

Rocky, the German shepherd dog that our son Bobby gave us at Christmas is now sixteen months old. He is as smart and adventuresome as they come. He began limping badly and our conclusion was that he tried to dig under the pasture fence and got pricked by a piece of subterranean barb wire. I gave him penicillin shot in hopes it would cure any infection he might have with high hopes of avoiding a vet visit.$$$
Then it was my turn. I developed that nasty ole stomach virus that kept me hugging the toilet every fifteen minutes for nearly twelve hours. I would have had to die to get better. Week one.

A few days ago Buddy’s neck pain returned with a vengeance. It is the week-end, of course, so I will have to endure his torment until he can see his family doctor on Monday. He walks around like Frankenstein, turning his whole body at his shoulders. Poor baby.
Rocky healed from his sore foot, but a few days later had pain in his right leg that was so bad that he yelped with each step he took. We had to discontinue his basic obedience training. It was just too difficult for him to heel, sit and get down.
Buddy and I examined Rocky’s paw and could see no puncture, no infection, no anything that looked unusual. We aggressively felt his foot and ankle area and he didn’t holler. This was a puzzler. Monday we gave in and took him to the vet as he was limping as badly as ever. The vet believes he has a sprained shoulder. My guess is that he managed to get atop our metal-roofed barn from the mountain-side rear and slid off the metal siding which is a good ten foot drop. The vet postponed x-rays to see if medication would help first. Rocky is on anti-inflammatory drugs and glucosamine. $$$

Yesterday I woke up with a sore throat, the coughing crud, and a probable cold, something I rarely have, especially in the summer time. It is terrible timing as this up-coming week I have a Sunday school class to teach, a luncheon engagement with a struggling cancer survivor and a doctor’s appointment with a friend who is to hear the prognosis of her serious cancer. I also agreed to a speaking request on short notice, and, finally, there is a book signing on Saturday for both U.S. Senator Zell Miller and me at the Inspirations Book Store in Hiawassee at 10:00.

I can hardly wait until week three. Hopefully my Buddy won’t need a new cadaveric disc in his antique neck, Rocky won’t need x-rays and a trip to Athens, and I won’t develop pneumonia requiring a stay in the hospital. I’ll pass on that delicious hospital chow.
If I believed in silly fallacies of threes as my mother did, I would try to reverse my luck by turning counter-clockwise three times. Or, I would search for a cluster of three butterflies which supposedly brings good luck.

Being a pragmatist, I accept life as it comes. It could be worse, a lot worse. If I threw my problems in a pile and then saw yours, I would probably grab mine back.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-06-12T18:30:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #349

Nancy White Kelly

Last week Buddy and I made the thirty mile trip to the closest big box store. As usual, we stopped for breakfast on the way, this time at the place with golden arches.

As we made our way to the counter, I noticed a scruffy-looking, older gentleman eating pancakes with beautiful strawberries piled on top. It amazed me that this franchised hamburger establishment would serve such luscious fruit.
Buddy ordered a sausage and biscuit. I asked the clerk for pancakes with strawberries on top. Her jaw dropped and she glared silently in disbelief. I caught on and reacted with calm aplomb.

“Cancel those strawberries,” I said. “Just plain pancakes will be fine.”

With our trays in hand, Buddy and I passed by the strange, but eloquent diner who apparently brought his own fruit. Buddy wasn’t as interested in the man as I was.
The next peculiar thing that I noticed was that his food was on a lovely straw placemat. Instead of the foam plates Buddy and I were given, this man had a real dish. Its gilded border matched the edge of his china cup which was decorated with pink cherubs.

Buddy and I took a near-by booth. I hoped the man wouldn’t notice my staring. He didn’t. He was in another world fully occupied with his morning meal.
A white, cloth napkin lay upon his lap in vivid contrast to his wrinkled and soiled shirt. As best I could tell from the distance, the napkin appeared to be ironed.
Had the man been in a tuxedo and cleanly shaven, he could have been a stand-in for the butler in those “pass the all-fruit” commercials.

I removed my plastic fork from the sealed package and then pried the tiny piece of yellow, imitation oil from the small container. My eyes kept returning to the odd man. Probably he had real butter.

His eating utensils were not the same as mine. The fork was a silvery-colored metal, probably sterling.

Twice the old man got up from his booth seat, picked up a white paper cup, and approached the counter. Without a word, the clerk refilled the man’s cup with coffee. He returned to his seat and methodically poured the piping-hot contents into his personal cup.

Buddy and I finished eating and discarded our trash. On the way out the door, I took one last look at the old man who was still leisurely enjoying his breakfast. He was lost in oblivion.

Was he a vagrant or an eccentric millionaire? I laughed as my mind supplied a silly answer:” Only the Shadow knows.”

Buddy and I headed for our car in the parking lot. I carefully perused the area looking for that candid camera. This experience was so surreal that there had to be someone lurking in the shrubbery.

Nobody came forth. I smiled anyway.

2009-05-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #348

Nancy White Kelly

Now that summer has officially arrived, Buddy and I are spending much more time outside. We have six hens and a rooster that provides us with plenty of eggs. A benevolent neighbor gave us four rows of his garden to plant as our own. We have the usual variety of vegetables: corn, peas, okra, squash, potatoes, and several varieties of tomatoes. If we can keep neighboring cows and hungry deer from sneaking in, we should have a bountiful harvest again this year.

Buddy does the planting. My work begins when he proudly delivers the vegetables to the kitchen counter. Last year I shelled, canned and froze food like no tomorrow. Considering I was raised in the city, preserving food continues to be more of a novelty than an absolute necessity. Cost-wise, I think we would come out even buying vegetables at peak time, but that isn’t the point, is it?

My mother was a wonderful cook. Unfortunately, as a young girl who played too much Hide-n-Seek, I learned many of life’s lessons from the kitchen the hard way. Experience. Buddy has been wonderfully patient during these forty-four years of marriage.

As an older lady now with infinite acquired wisdom, I feel compelled to pass along these helpful insights to all you home-makers of the current generation. Even if you don’t eat better, at least your house will smell better.

Let’s begin with…

EGGS - When something starts pecking its way out of the shell, the egg is probably past its prime.

POTATOES - Fresh potatoes do not have roots.

SPICES: Most spices do not die. They just fade away. However, spices will do fine on your shelf forever. Just don’t forget to put them in your will.
MEAT - If opening the refrigerator door causes stray animals from a three-mile radius to congregate outside your house, toss the meat.
CANNED GOODS - Any canned goods that have become the size or shape of a cantaloupe should be disposed of ... very carefully.

UNMARKED ITEMS IN THE FRIDGE: You know left-overs are well beyond prime when you're tempted to discard the container along with the food.

AND FINALLY… Most food cannot be kept longer than the average life span of a hamster. I would suggest keeping a hamster in your refrigerator to gauge this. And speaking of creatures, a new study shows that LICKING THE SWEAT OFF A FROG can cure depression. The down side is, the minute you stop licking, the frog gets depressed again.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-05-14T10:19:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #347

Nancy White Kelly

Poor Buddy. He doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me most times because he has a new ailment every day. I tell him he is like the boy who cried wolf. One day he is really going to be sick and I’m not going to know it. Over the years I have grown rather indifferent to his complaints. Recently I kept count of how many consecutive days that he told me he was tired. The tally was 32.

Buddy gets at least one if not two annual physicals. All his blood work is fine. Buddy isn’t sick. He is just getting older.

Yesterday he woke up complaining about a sore shoulder. Again I humored him. Poor baby. He then said his neck was aching too and sort of stiff. Again, poor baby. When Buddy asked if we could go out for breakfast, I reluctantly agreed even though I had a pile of “to do’s” on my list. At least it would get his mind off his shoulder and neck.

Buddy pitched the car keys to me with today’s good arm. I stopped at a restaurant about halfway to town hoping to get back in time for the usual eleven a.m. time of the Ye Old Coin Shop.
The busy waitress finally took our order. Buddy, in obvious discomfort, grew crankier as the minutes ticked by. I perked up our conversation in an attempt to keep his mind off his pain and the poor service. The chit-chat evolved into a warm discussion. He was unhappy that I wasn’t taking his hurting seriously enough.

Buddy is a hard person to read when it came to illness. I do care greatly about this husband of mine, but sometimes giving excessive sympathy makes the situation worse. Our personalities are totally opposite. I prefer to suffer in silence. In contrast, he likes to at least vocalize, if not dramatize, his every pain. I kid you not. Ask him about the toe he hurt in the Navy.

This day I questioned Buddy about radiating pain, headache, shortness of breath, and any other possible symptoms that could be the precursor of something serious. My conclusion was that he slept in a poor position resulting in a neck crick. I suggested a hot shower and offered a massage. If that didn’t help, I would call the doctor for an appointment. That seemed to appease him.

Finally home, Buddy opted for a heating pad. I gave him a pain pill. He slept for a couple of hours and by mid-afternoon he was moving around the house slowly. By nightfall, he was eating popcorn and watching television. There was no further mention of his shoulder and neck.

Apparently Buddy didn’t have spinal meningitis or some insidious, paralyzing disease. This morning he is outside cutting grass and dealing with moles and ant hills. I expect my tired husband to come into the house any moment now wanting breakfast. Life is back to normal.

2009-04-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #346
Nancy White Kelly

In the Baptist faith, we call our spiritual leaders pastors. In other denominations, an equivalent would be priest or rector. In the Jewish community, the chief leader is the rabbi, and in the Moslem world that would be the Imam.

I have great respect for those who choose or are chosen to give spiritual direction to a congregation of believers. Come June I will have had twelve pastors in my lifetime. An even dozen.

I worked on staff with some of my pastors. While none of them was perfect, all were sincere and each one has had a significant impact on my life. I have loved all my spiritual shepherds and believe that this devotion is mutual.

One pastor indulged my request to be baptized again. He did so with water from the Jordan River that was brought back in a small jar by a friend who had recently visited the Holy Land. Later, thanks to a reader who follows this column, Buddy and I had the opportunity to be fully immersed in the Jordan River near Jerusalem which is where John the Baptist baptized Jesus.

A third of my former pastors have passed on to their deserved reward. I still hear from a few. Occasionally one will ask me to consider working with them again. But, unless God writes it on the wall, I am not leaving the mountains until I make my own trip to Glory.

As a teen-age girl, I purposed to follow Christ and his teachings for the rest of my natural life and have never regretted that decision. My pastors played an important role. Each man was memorable. They embraced myriad personalities and styles, ranging from high-strung, hell, fire, and brimstone types to low-key, brotherly or fatherly surrogates who quietly delivered compelling messages of unconditional love.

I often wonder where I would be today without the impact of these pastors. I think I could be a criminal. Without the moral compass of the Bible, I would have no reason to constrain my thoughts or actions. And who could be more responsible for indelibly imprinting biblical principles than my former pastors?

Saying “good-byes” are hard, but a routine part of life. My current pastor is retiring soon after a long ministry and I will miss him. A new senior pastor, whom I knew in what seems like a life-time ago, will join the long line of those who came before. I knew this pastor-to-be mostly through his wife and daughters. Sharon taught music and I was Shannon and Melody’s school principal. We felt a great loss when the Pickerills moved away.

So often we pass through life without giving proper thanks to those who have touched us so. To Brother Rudy Patton and to all my other pastors, I thank you from the depths of my soul for helping me to be a better person than I might have been.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-04-11T14:15:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #345

Nancy White Kelly

I wiped tears from a fallen warrior and stood in the gap, protecting the wounded one from further injury. To my surprise, recovery was immediate. The two who were engaged in brotherly combat were soon sharing their cookies with each other and their favorite stuffed animals, Lambie and Bear.

Yes, Buddy and I have been baby-sitting. Charlie and Tori took advantage of the Spring Break and headed to Minneapolis, leaving each set of grandparents to take turns filling their shoes. We performed admirably considering the oldest, Micah, age four, had strep throat. He was unusually quiet and preferred my lap to his toys. Two-year old Noah, a vocal live-wire, was a non-stop dynamo.

In spite of the fact Buddy and I have raised a dozen children, birth, adopted, and foster, we felt a little inept. We quickly learned that in those ensuing years since parenting youngsters ourselves, a slow leak has occurred in our energy supply.

That first day of our baby-sitting stint we had a couple of hours of welcomed sunshine. The boys and I took a trek into the near-by woods. They walked the fallen logs and I watched for snakes.
Then the weather turned horrendously windy and cold. From then on, we were housebound. The television went on the blink leaving the boys with no cartoons or news for Buddy and me.

Thankfully an ancient repertoire of kiddie songs, poems and stories returned to my sluggish memory. Micah, Noah and I played hide-and-seek, built domino towers, fished cards with a little suction cup on a pole and blew hundreds of soapy bubbles into the bathroom sink. Buddy was good for short spurts of entertainment, but primarily worked on the Charlie’s lawn-mower. He is far more comfortable with mechanics than little children.

It became quite clear why Charlie and Tori consider seven o’clock p.m. their favorite time on the clock. It is the beginning of the boys’ bedtime ritual. Baths. Stories. Songs and finally prayers, theirs’ and then mine: “Dear God, now I lay these children down to sleep. Please keep them in bed without a peep. Amen.”

I was overly optimistic when I packed for this baby-sitting gig. I brought along my laptop computer and some books to study in preparation for teaching Sunday school. What was I thinking? By the time the magic hour arrived in the early evening, I was more tired than the children. Who could concentrate when every adult-level brain cell had shut down from inactivity? I foolishly procrastinated with a silent promise. Tomorrow I’ll study, but a tomorrow, with time to spare, never came.

We survived our days with the grandchildren without any major incident. Unfortunately Buddy and I are now sick ourselves. Our grown kids got a needed break and we will recover. It's hard to not want to be part of this stage of our grandsons' lives. Before we blink they will be teenagers.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-03-25T16:14:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #344

Nancy White Kelly

Our son Charlie thinks his parents are ancient. He never really says so, but I can tell by little statements he makes now and then. He just turned 29. We did have him late in life, but decrepit we are not.

Funny how your prospective changes as you edge closer to the other end of life’s spectrum. Elderly is always ten years away. While Buddy is a dozen year older, I hardly consider myself a senior citizen. Yet, I must admit that the signs all point to the advent of my golden years.

It was with amusement that I discovered an official name for my presenting condition. The acronym is A.AA.D.D. which stands for: Age-Activated Attention Deficit Disorder. My symptoms usually start in the morning and are most prevalent if Buddy is away for some early event which is usually breakfast with his buddies.

I go to the kitchen to put the coffee kettle on and notice that my pot of petunias needs watering. While heading toward them with the water left in the kettle from the day before, I see that the cat bowl is empty. I put the kettle on the dining table to fill the cat bowl. It is then that I notice the unopened mail from yesterday. I stop to flip through the bills, tossing the excess envelopes and junk papers into the trash can which is full. I pull out the plastic liner, tie it up and start to the corner of the kitchen where the box of new trash bags resides. The phone rings and I place the garbage bag in the center of the kitchen floor.

After a brief conversation, I try to remember what I was doing. Oh, yes, the tea kettle. I find it on the dining table wondering why it was there instead of on the stove top. On the way to fill the kettle with fresh water, I see that the petunias are still wilted. On the way to attend to the flowers, I observe the still empty cat bowl. I place the kettle on the dining table and rattle the bag of cat feed. The cat races into the kitchen and lays at my feet in a position that says, “Scratch me, please.”

I put the bag down and rub his belly. When I return to an up-right position, I ask myself what I was doing. Oh, yes. The coffee kettle. There it is again in the center of the dining table. On the way to the sink to fill the kettle, I kick the bag of trash in the kitchen floor. That is no place for the trash, so I place the kettle on the table and take the bag outside to the dumpster. On the way, I notice that the yard flowers need watering. I connect the nozzle and drag the coiling green hose closer.

Good grief! I am still in my pajamas. My Mama taught me better.
I lay the hose amongst the flowers to continue that task as I head inside to find some clothes for the day. Passing through the kitchen I see the kettle on the table. I stop to retrieve it and observe that there is still no trash bag in the garbage can. Heading to the kitchen corner to get a new one, my eyes catch sight of the empty cat bowl again. This time I determine to stay on task.
After dressing, I fill the kettle with fresh water and put it on the gas stove eye. In the meanwhile, I head to the computer to check my email. A half hour later I catch a whiff of the melting plastic handle of the then dry kettle.

In spite of my slow start, I make my coffee and take my usual place in the den recliner and pick up the newspaper. Now, where are my reading glasses? Not a single pair is in sight, much less in reaching distance. I sit for a moment to reflect on the effort it would take to arise from the recliner and perform a search.

Inertia sets in. My eyelids get heavy and a brief morning nap ensues. When I awaken, I make my way to the kitchen sink to wash my coffee cup.

Oops. No water comes from the spout. How could that be? Of course. The well is empty from the water hose which I left unattended.
Bottom line: At the end of the day, there is still no food in the cat bowl, no liner in the trash can and the paper is still folded.
Maybe Charlie’s silent assessment of my senioritis is right. It does seem I am spending a lot of time these days thinking about the hereafter. What am I here after?

Don’t be too smug. Senility is sneaky and reveals itself in other subtle ways. Try this. Say "silk" five times. Now spell "silk." What do cows drink? If you said “milk,” then join the senile crowd.

2009-03-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #342

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy and I recently took a week-end trip to the Chattanooga area to attend a Coin Show. Sometimes we go as vendors and rent a table on the bourse. Other times we go to buy additional stock for our coin shop.

One restaurant that we frequent is well- known for its down-home food and atmosphere. On this trip Buddy and the waitress struck up an immediate rapport. Though her first name wasn’t really Sue, Buddy, in his usual comedic style, addressed her by this made-up moniker.

Sue had lightness in her voice like a young girl, but the creases around her eyes and the stars on her apron indicated she had been a worker in this restaurant chain for a good while. In-between stories of years long gone, Buddy forgot that he was supposed to be ordering breakfast. Finally the entertained waitress pretended to write Old Timers Special on the ticket and disappeared with a grin.
When Sue returned with a huge order quite to the liking of Buddy, she mentioned that she was a registered nurse prior to becoming a waitress. Her explanation was that she changed jobs because of “short-term memory problems.” I found the occupational transition a bit odd, but Buddy nodded enthusiastically, acknowledging that that fully related to her difficulty in remembering. Sue’s problem, however, was far more serious than advancing old-age.

Sue’s unwinding story, told between trips to our table with condiments and coffee refills, was moving. She related that a couple of years ago, while driving to the home of her sister, she noticed that her left foot felt “asleep.” Sue shook the foot vigorously and continued driving thinking that she must have positioned it at an odd angle on the floorboard. Moments later, Sue felt a tingling sensation creep up her leg. Minutes later her hip felt numb.

Sue steered the car into the parking area of a combination service station and convenience store. Being a nurse, she knew something was badly wrong. By the time she reached the counter, her speech was slurring.

The store workers were rude and told her to move along. “We don’t want drunks on our premises,” the cashier said.

Sue tried to explain, but the cashier motioned her away. In disbelief, Sue struggled back to her car and drove to the sister’s house.

Sue managed to open the car door one more time, but this time fell to the ground. She was having a stroke.

After several days in the hospital’s intensive care unit and a lengthy rehabilitation period, Sue regained use of her body. Her mind, she says, “is pretty slow now.”

Sue’s sister didn’t forget the terrible treatment of her sibling at the convenience store. She confronted the cashier and manager and asked if they remembered the stammering lady who asked for help. They smirked and the manager referred to Sue as the “drunk lady.” Sue’s sister explained that this so-called drunk lady wasn’t intoxicated, but was having a stroke. She calmly informed the store manager that everybody would know about their lack of compassion and assistance.

The newspaper was told the story. Afterwards, television and radio stations relayed the incident. Local customers were enraged and called for a boycott of the establishment. Eventually gas and store traffic became a trickle. The owners were forced out of business.

Maybe this wasn’t a happy ending, but a deserved one. The media is powerful and, in this case, championed the telling of Sue’s story.
Buddy finished his breakfast and slipped a sizeable tip into her smock pocket.

The Ye Old Coin Shop probably took a loss on this trip, but I am proud of my compassionate husband. He may have a short-term memory, but he has a long-term heart.
----------
nancyk@windstream.net

2009-02-15T14:53:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #341

Nancy White Kelly

If you see a fly on the wall, please don't reach for the swatter. It just might be me and I don't have that many lives left.

When folks allow me the privilege, I do enjoy taking a back seat and quietly watching and listening. One conclusion I have drawn is that everybody has an opinion. Here is mine.

It seems that the hobby of coin collecting is predominantly a man's world. You won't find many lady numismatists. The majority of the clients of Ye Old Coin Shop are senior-age men. I suppose the reason is because at the height of the coin collecting era, men tightly controlled the household finances while the wives raised the children and secretly stashed left-over grocery money in the sugar bowl.

Female pilots are still a novelty too though that is rapidly changing. Getting a pilot’s license isn’t rocket science. Know your clouds, read a few maps, study the FAA manual and practice for a while with a teacher. Graduating from Boy’s High seems to add points. Have you ever noticed what the front part of an airliner is called? The cockpit.

Collecting old coins for pleasure or profit isn’t football or rugby. Still it is considered a predominantly male hobby. It amuses me when customers assume that Buddy is the coin man and that I just bring his coffee.

My Buddy is a significant representative of the male gender, especially to me. If it were not for his physical labor and manly support, there would not be a coin shop. He, too, is a pilot and a much better one than I am. Just don't ask him the key date for the Walking Liberty half dollar or the closing price of gold today. Don't ask me either to wire your house or fix your dripping pipe. Common cents is more than copper Lincolns.

Just this week a friend whimsically remarked that things might have been different had there been three wise women instead of three wise men. For starters, they would have stopped and asked directions. They would have been on time. The wise women would probably have helped deliver the baby and, most certainly, would have brought more practical gifts.

The Living Lady is not a feminist. Far from it. Yet, I enjoy being a girl in a man’s world. Remember that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards… and in high heels.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-02-01T14:08:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #340

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy came close to being in the dog house recently. He lost my new trime. I had it all of about thirty minutes. Admittedly it was tiny, about the size of my little finger nail. But I’ve never had a trime before and was looking forward to putting it in my collection.
Let me explain what a trime is for those of you who aren’t into numismatics, the fancy term for coin collecting. “Tri” implies three, of course. And the “ime,” that is shortened from dime.

A trime is a rare American coin with a distinctive large C and the Roman numeral III displayed on the reverse side. It was minted between 1851 and 1873 and played a major role in determining the kind of money carried in purses today.

In 1851, the cost of postage for a letter was 5 cents if delivered within 500 miles. That seems like a bargain to me, but a nickel wasn’t easy to come by in those days. For economic stimulus reasons, the US lowered the postage stamp to 3 cents. This caused a problem.

The common money in use at this time of steam-driven transportation was gold. Granted, there were copper cents and half cents circulating, but that was primarily in the major eastern cities. Coppers were immensely unpopular.

In the mid-1800’s, the average worker’s daily wage was paid with a $1 gold piece. According to experts, that compares to wages of a tad more than $100 today. Sounds good, but imagine trying to buy a loaf of bread if the smallest coin you had was worth $100 and it was nearly impossible to make change for the difference.

A serious monetary crisis developed during that era of history related to the gold standard. The need for silver coinage was established and laws enacted. Then came the introduction of the silver trime, the smallest American legal tender ever made. When 1853 ended, there were plenty of these shiny trimes to satisfy demand for change. That satisfaction didn’t last long. A diversity of coinage was on the horizon.

While the trime’s monetary value today isn’t as great as its abbreviated history, I was delighted to have one as a conversation piece.

The trime may have ended the one of many monetary crises of the
1800’s, but for a moment in 2009, it started a silent flame of angry thoughts. How could Buddy be so irresponsible as to lose a coin between the shop and the house? After all, it is less than fifty feet from the coin shop’s door to our den.

This incident began last week when a young customer came into the coin shop with the trime in hand. He also had three other small coins of foreign origin. As with most customers, the man wanted to know if he had anything of great value.

It wasn’t too difficult to identify what he had. All four of the coins could have fit inside a single, large thimble. Considering that the coins were not in good condition, I offered him a fair price which he eagerly accepted.

After he left, Buddy came into the shop to see the new acquisitions as he had been viewing the transaction on the security camera. Because of the accumulation of grime, he could not read much of the writing and kindly offered to clean them up some.

I agreed though this is generally a numismatic “no-no.” Cleaning collectible, old coins devalues them greatly and can be easily discerned by a knowledgeable collector or dealer. In this case, however, a gentle washing would do no harm. They had obviously traveled many miles and were dirty from the journey.

It was near closing time for the Ye Old Coin Shop. I quickly placed the four tiny coins in a small folder and handed them to Buddy. Off he went to start the cleaning project. A few minutes later I could smell the familiar vinegary fumes.

“How many coins did you give me?” he asked.

“Four,” I replied, wondering why he asked.

Buddy moaned at my answer. All he had in the pan was three. Sure enough, the one coin that was missing was the trime. Apparently he had dropped it somewhere amidst grass and rocks. He combed the drive-way and the grass until it was too dark to continue. The next morning he was up at day-break with the metal detector. Alas, the trime could not be found.

My angry thoughts never became hurtful words, but I half-teasingly threatened to banish Buddy to the dog house. Rocky, our German shepherd, is not into sharing his food and probably would not cotton to having his master share his sleeping quarters.

Maybe the trime will show up again. Maybe not. But I quickly concluded that it wasn’t worth hassling my main, best man.

Back in the 1970’s, I lost my gold, solitaire engagement ring while washing dishes. Buddy took the drain apart, but we never recovered it.

That loss registers much higher on the Richter scale of marriage than the lost trime. Though disappointed, Buddy never chastised me for my carelessness. I have always appreciated his forgiveness because he worked long and hard for the money to buy that ring. I only had that trime for a few minutes.

A silver trime is only a trime. A husband who puts up with me for nearly forty-four years is a diamond.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-01-17T17:52:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #339
Nancy White Kelly

Martin Luther King’s birthday is my benchmark that January is half over. My friend Pat was born on MLK’s birthday. I never forget the date of her birthday though she has absolutely no genetic relationship to his family. Pat, who taught kindergarten when I was principal, wasn’t a racist at all. She loved all children, red, yellow, black or white. She never marched in Selma, Atlanta, or anywhere else on King’s behalf. That was not her style. Her only connection to Martin Luther King was that she was born the same day that he was in the old South. Because of that, Pat gets the day off work as a bonus. There is even a parade downtown.

Though Pat and I have seldom seen each other since our family moved to the mountains in the early 90’s, I think of her often. We became good friends. However, she never took the liberty of calling me Nancy. It was always Dr. Kelly, which is what the school staff called me.

Pat’s sense of humor is notorious. She knew how to short-sheet a bed at retreats. Once I paid her back by putting clear plastic wrap under the toilet seat lid. Probably Pat is still up to her pranks which included moving a large, black plastic rat to unusual places. If the event was formal or sacred, the better.

Pat could take a joke too. One April I gave her an urgent note to phone Ellie Font immediately. The number, of course, was to the Atlanta zoo.

Pat took a special interest in Bobby, the foster child we adopted at the age of ten. Charlie, our biological son, got plenty of attention as he was bright, played the piano extremely well for a child, and had an adult-sized vocabulary long before starting school. Bobby, who is the same age as Charlie, came to us at the age of five unable to count to five.

To Pat, he was the “under-child” and she made it her goal to make him feel special. One year she planned a surprise birthday party just for him even though she had a son of her own who was one year older.

Pat also found ways to make me feel special too. Just recently I discarded the pink and white, hand-crocheted afghan that she made me. I loved that afghan and toted it everywhere when I traveled. But, like a worn, beloved baby blanket, it had seen its best days and needed to be relegated to the past.

Time has passed swiftly. Pat is now a great-grandmother. Bobby, now grown, has two children of his own. Both have generous, tender hearts.

Bobby gave us a six-month -old German shepherd puppy for Christmas. Rocky is a nice dog. We have been busy making the house and yard safe, not only for Rocky, but for our twenty cockatiels as well as for Sam the cat.

Buddy bought a huge dog house that previously belonged to a pet goat. I found a large chain-linked pen to use temporally while we wait for warmer weather to fence the backyard. The Kelly den now has a huge crate which is Rocky’s sleeping quarters at night. One plus is that Rocky, comes from a long line of genuine police dogs. He will provide additional security for the Ye Old Coin Shop next door to our home.

I gave Rocky his final set of distemper shots, but he still had some veterinarian needs. I called the vet we have previously used, but his office charge, plus the heart-worm test and rabies shot was too high for our budget these days.

A church friend told us that there was a new lady vet in a Blairsville. She couldn’t remember the name. It just happened that I found a business card in a restaurant that week with a lady doctor’s name on it: Melissa G., D.M.D.

Eureka!

The next morning I called the phone number on the plain little card. A receptionist answered.

“This is Nancy Kelly. I was wondering what you would charge to check our young German shepherd for heart worms and give him a rabies shot.”

There was a long pause before she replied rather whimsically.

“Maybe we could check his teeth for you.”

I responded in puzzlement. “His teeth?” Dollars signs flashed in my head.

“Yes,” she replied. “Dr. Geesling isn’t a veterinarian. She is a dentist.”

It was one of those spontaneous laughs that lingers on and on. We both finally caught our breaths. Tears ran down my cheeks. A good belly-laugh can be a great eye wash.

Happy Birthday, Pat. Wish you could have been here.

nancyk@windstream.net

2009-01-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #338

Nancy White Kelly

The year of 2008 was a Leap Year. Buddy and I would like to have leaped past it as it didn’t turn out to be such a good one. Not that we aren’t grateful for obvious blessings.

We are thankful that both our sons have decent, steady jobs. Our daughter-in-law made it home from a tour in Iraq with all her limbs attached. Our four grandchildren are healthy and happy.

Economically, it was a hard year. Like many others, we became thriftier by necessity. The hike in Social Security would have been nicer if our health insurance premiums didn’t jump larger than the increase. That twenty percent rise in electrical rates was astronomical and hard to absorb. Then we all know about last year’s $4 a gallon gas prices.

Almost daily, near-desperate customers drop by our Ye Old Coin shop at Byers Creek and Southern in Young Harris. Both young and old spread out gold and silver coins, tokens and old paper money on the glass counter. Sometimes they bring bigger items too, but we explain that we are a coin shop, not a pawn shop. We recommend Southland Pawn in Hiawassee for shotguns and jewelry. The owner, Jerry Franks, has a great reputation for being fair and honest.

More than once we have provided food to our customers instead of the meager cash some collections would bring. Old doesn’t always mean valuable. Dealers must also consider rarity and condition.
Deal or no deal, Buddy and I are happy to be givers rather than the givees. Recently some friends who have a small herd of cattle unexpectedly gave us half of a cow. It wasn’t barley and fishes, but that beef has fed several families in at least three states.

The year 2008 went out with a whimper…literally. The Living Lady wasn’t about to let the New Year ring in without a crowning adventure. With a cancer port removal, a triple hernia repair, knee replacement surgery, and a heart attack all in the last quarter of 2008, you would think that I had sufficiently paid my medical dues for at least the eighth year of the new millennium.

But, alas, fluky accidents lurk when you least expect them. While several friends were anxiously anticipating a possum dropping from the sky, Buddy and I smugly lay in bed, quietly reading and relishing the fact we wouldn’t be encountering any revelers on the highways.

As I carefully cut out a couple of articles from an old hardback to share with my up-coming Sunday school class. Buddy flipped channels with the remote. That is his unspoken signal that he is ready to sleep. Tired from a long day too, I placed the straight-edge razor blade inside the book to hold my place for another session.
I sat up on my side of the bed looking for an uncluttered spot to place the book. Unbeknownst to me, that stealthy razor blade slid from inside the book into the bedroom carpet, lodging itself in a blade-up position. I sunk my foot and full weight into the vertical edge of the sharp steel. Dark blood saturated the rug.

Buddy darted toward me, instinctively grabbing two white socks from his dresser drawer to apply pressure. My crutches, which were used while recuperating from the knee surgery, leaned against the wall.
In one swell sweep, Buddy grabbed those crutches, my purse, our coats, and the house and car keys. Almost as an after-thought, he laid it all down briefly to replace his pajama pants.

Once inside the car, my attentive husband assumed a different personality. I assured Buddy that I was not having a baby and it was not necessary to drive 80 miles an hour with the flashers blinking. He pretended to not hear me.

For now, he was Walter Mitty, the ambulance driver, on a life and death mission. Two hours and a few stitches later, Buddy and I were back home in our supposedly safe bed.

Froggie may have went a’courtin’, but the Living Lady went a’ limping into 2009. To paraphrase Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Year, “I shan't think about Leap Year today. I'll think about it tomorrow…in 2012.”

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-12-18T18:04:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #337
Nancy White Kelly

It is almost Christmas. There aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. It is this way every year. I start early by buying gifts in July and tucking them away in the bedroom closet. One summer I found a stash of missed Christmas presents that transformed themselves into birthday or “no occasion” gifts instead.

Today Buddy and I attended the first Christmas performance that included Charlie and Tori’s sons. Grandson Micah is going on four. Noah is not yet two.

Micah sang Jingle Bells and vigorously rang the batch of silver bells attached to his wrist. He was unaware or didn’t care that he was supposed to keep time with the music. Nobody else seemed to care either as video cameras and digital flashes recorded the rehearsed, yet spontaneous antics for future amusement.

Little Noah, dressed in a Santa suit, was pulled around the church auditorium in a red wagon caravan. Our grandboys were adorable, but what would you expect a proud grandmother to write?

Micah was born prematurely and his parents insist he has slight developmental problems. I don’t notice anything amiss. Being a former professional educator, you’d think I would spot anything significantly troublesome. Charlie says I don’t notice Micah’s language lag because I don’t see him daily. All I see is a quiet, deep thinking little boy who puts together complicated puzzles better than I could. No, Micah isn’t a big talker, but he communicates effectively when he wants to do so.

I was never a big talker either. My mother often told me that, as a baby, I would sit in the floor and entertain myself for hours. I can still do that. Not sit in the floor, mind you, but I can certainly entertain myself without human assistance. There are just not enough hours in the day or sustained energy to accomplish everything on my want to do list after my have to do chores are completed.

Buddy is a morning person and insists I come to bed at night earlier than I would like. It isn’t that he is so concerned about my lack of slumber. He just needs a warm body so he can sleep himself. If he weren’t so persistent about lights out, I would be a perpetual nibbling, nocturnal, computer-using, book-reading junkie.

But, back to our youngest grandson, Noah. I promise he is developing his grandfather’s sense of humor. This was the toddler’s conversation with his mother just yesterday.

TORI: Noah!
NOAH: What?
TORI: Don’t say “what.” Say “Mam.”
NOAH: “DAMN.”
Gotta love him!

******

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-12-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #336

Nancy White Kelly

November has never been my favorite month. It seems that major negative events have always occurred during the eleventh month of the year. Both my parents died in November in Memphis in the same hospital room only a few years apart.

Last month I probably came as close to dying as ever in my life. I am called the Living Lady for good reason. My life has been filled with many close calls including a stint in hospice. It is with thanksgiving that I am happy to report that I am well on the road to recovery again. Our now three- year- old grandson, Micah, says it best: “Granny better now.”

December is always a pleasant month, partly because we don’t play up the materialistic aspect. We do have gifts and a tree, but it is family time and we enjoy just being together laughing and reminiscing.

Having been born on a snowy Christmas Eve during World War II, my birthday always barges into Christmas affairs. Nobody complains about it. After all, only God determines who is born and when.
This year I am a bit nostalgic. In sixty-four years society in America has changed dramatically. Being a member of the era of the greatest generation, I fondly remember peculiar things like S & H green stamps and the struggle with rubber girdles. I felt pride in fictional heroes like the Lone Ranger and high-achievers like Helen Keller. In my pre-teen years I felt vulnerable to potential lurking villains while listening intently to radio dramas. “The Shadow Knows,” with its musical crescendos, was one of my favorites.
Our family couldn’t wait to get one of those new black and white televisions. We thought nothing of waiting five minutes or more for it to warm up. I was by mesmerized by Howdy Doody and Clarabelle. We kids were Mama and Daddy’s remote control, changing channels at night for their favorite shows like “I Love Lucy” or “Dragnet.”

If the old Brownie snapshots were in color then, they would have shown my rosy cheeks and purple lips. That was because my favorite snack was Kool-Aid with sugar. The neighborhood girls played hopscotch on sidewalks and boys raced in the streets with metal skates that had cleats attached to shoe soles.

After supper, we played cork ball until dark. On rainy days, my oldest brother and I jumped the rafters in the garage while playing wood tag. For my younger brothers, those weren’t the days of wine and roses, but swinging vines and bloody noses.

I loved the fifties. Elvis. Poodle skirts. Black and white Oxford shoes. The sixties were college years, especially memorable because of the racial turbulence. The seventies brought the Beatles, the escalating drug culture, and a stream of foster children into our home. Two of those are deceased now, one from severe diabetic complications and the other from a drug over-dose. The eighties were happy years. Our son Charlie was born after fifteen years of marriage and we adopted Bobby, the last one of our foster children. The nineties were good years. We moved to the mountains and started new friendships that still thrive.

Here we are almost a decade into the 21st century. Last week a friend I had not seen for twenty years dropped by for a surprise visit. We took up where we left off, hardly missing a beat. That is the way it is with good friends. Even though time gaps occur in a relationship, we are joined by shared experiences and good memories.
I can name many friends, most whom I taught somewhere at some place, who finished their earthly course this decade: Gary, Ed, Ted, Guy, Dick, Ramie, Hadyn, Jim, Al, Tom, and Bob to name a few. Life is short. The Bible says it plainly in James 4:14: “Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

Sixty-four years. How many more times will God call off the death angels in response to the prayer of friends and relatives? Only He knows. I am glad I don’t know my expiration date, but believe that it is a good idea to live as though it could be today.
For some it will be.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-11-21T17:02:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #335

Nancy White Kelly

Emails tell me you want an up-date on the story of Murphy’s Law and the Living Lady. To briefly recap: I voted early on October 2nd. My foot caught some bad carpet that sent me to the Emergency Room.
Fast forward: orthopedic referral, MRI, total knee replacement on November 4th. The night after surgery came a scary life and death episode. Several drugs were administered in an effort to stop my adrenaline-pumped limbs from flailing for nearly an hour. After several days in ICU, I came home to nursing care and physical therapy.

Today was my first day out of the house following this recent hospital stay. My cardiologist compared his old cardiograms with the new ones. The evidence seems to say that I went to the very brink of a massive heart attack only to back away to a lesser one. If you prayed for me during that time, thank you.

Most likely I will be having a heart catheterization in the near future to better pinpoint the damage. I am hesitant to agree to that procedure. A couple of years ago I experienced total kidney failure following one. Maybe it was the contrast dye from the cath and/or a bone-building drug taken along chemotherapy for my metastatic breast cancer that caused the need for dialysis. All I know is that I don’t want a repeat. Being obligated to blood cleansing three times a week for the rest of my life is not my idea of quality living. My hat is off to those of you who must do it.
My condition reversed and I felt like I had a new lease on life. For those of you who prayed for me during that tenuous time also, thank you again.

I am now recuperating from the knee surgery. It wasn’t and isn’t fun, but I think the corner has been turned. I am looking forward to getting back to a normal life and teaching my new Sunday school class once again. I have a renewed interest in sharing preparation for life hereafter. All of us are just one heart-beat away from eternity.

My recent journey brought me in contact with interesting people. While in ICU, I became well acquainted with the nurses. All of the staff was unusually caring and personable. One particular nurse whom I shall call Iona spent several shifts with me. When I was awake, we talked endlessly about a multitude of subjects. The one thing that bothered me was Iona’s smell. Her clothes were rank with cigarette smoke. I would know that smell anywhere because both my parents were chain-smokers in an era when it was glamorous. They are both deceased now and I am convinced tobacco use was partly responsible.

One restless night Iona’s smock caught my attention. The broadcloth top had a multitude of colorful cats printed on it. Being a cat owner myself, I asked if she had one also.

Iona proudly proclaimed that cats were the love of her life. She bred and showed them and had rooms full of prize ribbons. Iona shared that cats were also the passion of her now deceased mother. Iona tearfully related that her cats were all that kept her going through that dark time following her mama’s death.

All this was inspiring until she revealed that she had 22 cats and that ALL of them shared the same bed at night…with Iona. My eyes popped wide open in the semi-darkness of the hospital room.
Here I was in ICU with a contamination poster on the door. That meant everybody coming into the room had to wear special yellow gowns. This was to prevent the possibility of spreading MRSA which is a staph infection that I once contracted from a previous hospital stay.

Yet, here was in Intensive Care with a primary nurse who admittedly slept with a herd of cats who was taking care of every inch of my body inside and out. I would have laughed at the irony of the situation, and may have reported it, except that I really liked her. What was done was done. Who knows? My heart goes out to her cats. Maybe I gave them staph.

While waiting for the cardiologist today, I read through my hospital records. The jargon used by the medical profession is amusing. An introductory paragraph said that I was a “pleasant” lady. Buddy, my daily and life-time care-giver since 1965, might disagree. He knows what most people don’t. I can be grouchy at times.

While continuing the reading of my medical records, I noted one place that said I had “denied” use of alcohol and tobacco. It sounded as if I really did indulge in those vices, but wasn’t being truthful. Jack Daniels and I have never even met, much less been on a first-name basis. I rode a camel once but never smoked one.
Another pithy sentence described me as “mildly obese.” Hmmm. I guess “fat” is too factual and terse. One line made me laugh out loud. One of the attending physicians wrote that “Mrs. Kelly has a sharp mind, times 3.” Okay, so maybe I am not a goofus.

Thanks for the emails, cards and other expressions of kindness. Warm hearts have given Buddy and me full stomachs and much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving season. God bless you all.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-11-08T17:01:00.000-08:00

Journal of a Living Lady #334

Nancy White Kelly

The Living Lady is currently a resident of the Intensive Care Unit of a near-by hospital. This is my fourth day tubally attached to oxygen, pouches of blood, various antibiotics, and an ugly yellow bag. What began as routine replacement surgery for a badly damaged knee turned into a medical nightmare.

The orthopedic surgery went great. I awakened about three hours later in a regular room surrounded by family and friends. A routine pain pump was attached to my arm to administer pain medication at steady intervals. I had some pain, but nothing unbearable. Buddy went on home later after a long day that had started at 4:00 a.m.

A few hours later, I began to violently vomit. My limbs railed and thrashed. I had no control whatsoever of my muscles or bodily functions. Even with the new knee attached to a heavy, therapeutic, rowing machine, I kicked it around as easily as a piece of foam.

My muddled mind was still functioning, but only short phrases could be uttered, mostly “Help me, help me, please.”

The room gradually filled with staff. They cautiously backed up to the wall watching wide-eyed, and each asking the other if they have ever seen anything such as this. No one had. The on-duty doctor was phoned for instructions. In the meanwhile, an anesthesiologist who was attending a lady-in-waiting was unexpectedly called down for a code. It was three a.m.

In the midst of my unending thrashing, the number of spectators grew. The anesthesiologist asked me rapid-fire questions. I could only muster syllabic answers in a raucous voice. This was not me.

My body thrust forward as if doing unending sit-ups. My trembling hands rattled the bed railings. The crook of my inside elbows helplessly looped the trapeze bar above the bed only to jerk away again and again.

I knew what was going on, but was powerless to stop the frenzy. The doctors administered one drug after another to no avail. I felt like I was on the brink of dying.

In time, my exhausted body gave out. I awakened in ICU. The doctors informed me that I had apparently suffered a heart attack from the strenuous physical battle.
The current medical consensus is that I had a drug reaction from the medication in the pain pump that reacted to yet another drug. Several drugs had been administered before, during and following the surgery that day. You can be sure almost all those drugs are on my forever “no-no” list.

In the meanwhile, my new knee has patiently awaited physical therapy which was delayed. It is difficult now to lift my stapled leg even one inch off the bed without intense pain. The therapist assures me this is not a big problem and that we will make good progress in the days ahead.

Again, the Living Lady lives to write another day. Someday you will read my obituary, but not this time.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-10-26T14:31:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #333

Nancy White Kelly

My last column was a cliff-hanger. The final chapter is yet to be written.

The second attempt to get images of my damaged knee in an open MRI unit was successful. Actually the experience was anti-climatic.
The technician understood of my claustrophobia. Buddy gave me one of his nerve pills and gained permission to sit beside me as I entered the spacious, circular tube that looked like a giant, white donut. Buddy held my hand and I drifted off to sleep. In less than an hour I was breathing outside air again and on my way home. If only that could be the end of this saga.

The Living Lady is not a conspiracy theorist. Far from it. I am keenly aware that there are terrorists and sinister organizations. I just don’t agree that there is harm behind every tree. If I were of a paranoiac mind-set, I could argue that three weeks ago two communistic rocks and some tattered socialistic carpet conspired to deny me the privilege of voting.

In reality, the rocks were apparently placed by a well-meaning individual. It was a vain attempt to anchor loose, rag-tag carpet in front of the election site. Unfortunately, foot traffic from the steady stream of early voters caused the carpet to gradually dislodge. The loopy rug captured my ankle and sent me sprawling to the ground and my new glasses flying into the air.

For sure, it wasn’t a pretty sight. I lay perfectly still in the mangled carpet for several minutes. Eventually I gained composure and enough courage to attempt standing.

A passing car inched by. Seeing that I was vertical, the driver gave a friendly wave and proceeded on his way. I staggered into the election office. The kind officials were sympathetic and offered to call an ambulance. I declined knowing that Buddy would take me to the emergency room if needed.

The stories from voters and election officers were forth-coming. I was told that that the “powers that be” were aware that the worn carpet was an accident waiting to happen. Yes, a bid for replacement carpet was already in the works, but unfortunately the red-tape had not been unrolled.

Nothing stops the mail or the Living Lady, not rain, snow, or even the hypothetical conspiracy of rocks and stealthy carpet-baggers. Not to be dissuaded, I cast my ballot for President. For more reasons than one, my candidate had better win.If you notice the freshly laid carpet in front of the old jail, feel free to send me a thank you note.

Thanks to my brother’s attempt to educate, I have seen the gruesome “You-Tube” internet video. Ironically, I will be on an operating table having my leg nearly sawed in half on Election Day, November 4th.

Buddy, honey, hold my hand tightly. Oh, one more thing. I need another nerve pill.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-10-12T16:36:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #332

Nancy White Kelly

Like most married couples, Buddy and I have little private jokes between us. One is the “It’s your fault,” banter that we teasingly fling at each other when something goes wrong.

Buddy and I have been together for forty-three years. We do most everything together. That includes voting. The one time we made an exception, it caused me considerable agony.

I was busy with the Ye Old Coin Shop. Buddy had some errands to run and mentioned that he might stop by the voting office and cast his ballot early. No problem. I would do the same later.

The day that I decided to do just that, vote early, I tripped over some dislodged carpet that sent me sprawling. Where was my Buddy when I needed him to pick me up, brush me off, and give me one of his semi-sarcastic scoldings that only a loving husband can give...and live afterwards? Hurt or not, I was determined to exercise my right and privilege to vote which I did.

I was still in pain two hours later. Buddy insisted on droving me to the emergency room. After x-rays and the typical, “See your doctor in the morning,” orders, we returned home with crutches and prescriptions.

Buddy propped up my swollen leg and bandaged my scrapes. The following Monday I saw my regular doctor who suggested drawing fluid off the knee to give some relief. He related that this procedure was one of his favorite things to do. In my mind I figured he must be hard pressed for entertainment.

After numbing the skin, the doctor slowly inserted a long needle into the center of my right knee. It was no fun and I gritted my teeth. His first try was not successful and his nurse assured me that was unusual. Without further comment, the frowning doctor proceeded to numb the skin and insert another long needle at a different point of the knee. The needed could not find its targeted joint. The repeated probing was testing my usually high threshold for pain. The doc said that my knee appeared to be abnormal. Abnormal is the story of my life, but surely not my knee.

The determined doctor asked for one more chance to get the needle into my knee joint. I was temporarily buoyed by his confidence. Trying to be brave and compliant, I agreed. The third time was not the charm and there would be no fourth hole. The doctor didn’t need to ask. I had had enough. He suggested that I see an orthopedic doctor as soon as possible.

Surprisingly an appointment was available the next day. When Buddy and I arrived, we were disappointed to find forty patients, one P.A., and standing room only in a small waiting area full of hurting people. Each of us had a story to tell. We became well-acquainted while waiting our turn to enter three examining rooms only to find ourselves waiting another hour or so.

Four magazines later, the P.A. entered with his laptop. He displayed the hospital x-ray of my abnormal knee. Yep! There was a problem there. I needed an MRI.

It wasn’t until I was properly registered at the hospital the next day that I was made aware that this machine was a “closed” MRI.
Oh, no. Not that tube! The one that looks like a coffin for a basketball player. Unfortunately, it was.

Being extremely claustrophobic, I told the technician that I’d try, but was skeptical that I could stay long enough to get his needed pictures. I became more convinced that this would be a futile attempt as he immobilized me with straps that reminded me of an execution. Within minutes the sliding tray holding my reluctant body slowly inched inside the chamber. It didn’t stop until my chin was under the edge of the tunnel. Good grief! This was only an MRI of my knee.

Adrenaline surged from my toes to my skull. My insides felt like there was an emerging Hulk about to break through my skin.
I broke out in loud song in an effort to break this over-whelming siege of panic. This slide into terror was only an initial test. The technician brought me out only to tell me he was about to begin the real deal. He should have kept me there while he had the chance. There was no amount of money that could have kept me in that chamber of horrors for thirty more minutes.

The technician informed me I was the first person that day to disengage. He emphasized “that day.” There were consequences to my refusal. My previously scheduled follow-up visit with the orthopedic doctor had to be re-scheduled, assuming I could arrange a time slot with an “open” MRI machine. I got the last appointment of a traveling unit that would be in town on its once-weekly schedule.

Now I am awaiting the opportunity to test my ability to stay put. According to the orthopedic P.A.’s “crystal ball,” most likely there is knee surgery ahead. I can handle surgery. Just don’t trap me where I can’t get up or out.

It is Buddy’s fault. The next time there is an election, Buddy and I are going together.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-09-28T13:29:00.001-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady#331
Nancy White Kelly

Some families have reunions the old-fashioned way. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins come together at a particular place at a certain date and time. My family did this a few years ago when an organization called Making Memories granted a personal wish of having the extended White family come together before my funeral instead of after it.

This was when my cancer prognosis was grim and most everyone thought I was in my last few weeks. That reunion, held at Brasstown Bald, was wonderful. I saw relatives I had not seen in years and may never see again…at least not in this world. Two attendees, a young sister-in-law and an aunt have since both died with cancer. At the time of my family reunion, neither of them even knew they had the disease.

Buddy has a cousin who originally had an idea for a family reunion four years ago. Sandra even bought new mattresses and a day-bed in anticipation of a full-blown gathering. Circumstances prevented the reunion. Sandra’s mother and dad became seriously ill. Her mother died. Sandra consequently became care-taker of her very sick father in addition to her husband who was also very ill.

Sandra is not one to give up on an idea. Instead of a big family gathering, she began what we now call a mail reunion. Almost weekly we get photographs and sometimes hilarious stories from childhood adventures.

Sandra’s husband and father passed away recently. The funerals were within weeks of each other. In spite of the sadness, she has continued the reunion. Buddy and I received an up-date from Sandra this past week demonstrating a remarkable sense of humor.

She wrote, “I am not in intensive care. I am not in the psychiatric ward. I am not in jail. Nothing has been repossessed all day. No bounty hunter is looking for me and no one has shot at me for two weeks.” (She lives in rural Alabama where hunters are sometimes careless.)

This cousin concluded with her observation of seasons. “At the present time it is hurricane season and football season. And, as if that were not enough, hunting season is on the way. If we can just make it to the 31st day of January, we will be out of all these pesky seasons.”

Sandra failed to mention the election season with all its grandiose promises. If America can survive until November 4th, we will have elected a new president as well as many other state and national politicians. Then perhaps those seemingly endless mail and television advertisements, as well as unsolicited campaign phone calls, will cease for a season. Perhaps we can get back to normal life.

Oops, I forgot. The holiday season is coming so we best get ready to stuff the turkey, string the Christmas lights and fill another calendar with yet another round of seasons.

Wise King Solomon nailed it right: “To everything there is a season…a time to live and a time to die…a time to laugh and a time to cry.”

I am dying to live for another season, but am desirous of adding life to my earthly years, not years to my life.
If Shakespeare were still with us, he would probably write, “Away with this gloom and doom. Away, away I say.”

The Living Lady says, “Let’s hear it for a smiling season.” It is the second best thing to do with your lips.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-09-13T13:55:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #330

Nancy White Kelly

This is my seventh plus year of writing this column. It was never intended to be an open-ended journal of my personal life. Somehow it has evolved into that. I have never been much of a chit-chatter. Even as a young mother, the subject of a dozen ways to fold a diaper didn’t appeal to me. Therefore, I avoided the Tupperware and Mary Kay parties.

There are still many details about my life that only God and I share. I like it that way. God is a good listener and doesn’t gossip. Frankly, it even amazes me that I write my thoughts so freely in this column. You readers are the reason. You egg me on.

As a result of my unexpected notoriety this past decade as a newspaper columnist and spasmodic national news personality, hardly a day goes by that I don’t get email. Some are new friends who need encouragement in their battle with cancer. Others are just curious. They inquire about the status of the movie or wonder how about my own progress is in the cancer war. Recent emails included inquiries about the coin shop, the Kelly menagerie of animals and, of course, dear Buddy. Everybody loves Buddy.

Rather than string readers along until a column touches a particular topic of interest, I will respond today to all of the above.

The movie! Oh, yes. You remember. Back earlier in the year a prominent and successful California producer contacted me about making a movie of my life. I was paid for the rights to the Journal of a Living Lady. From that point on, I have had no say so in what happens. That is the way the system works.

The wheels turn slowly in Hollywood as Mr. Couturié has reminded me. I have tried to not to be a pest. The last email from him explained that those who are interested in fronting the money feel that it should be a documentary instead of a movie. The conclusion was that it should be balanced with at least one other who has survived unfathomable odds and who demonstrated wit and faith in adversity. The kicker was that the group thought that this person needed to be an African-American. Mr. Couturié is looking for such an individual and that is where our last conversation ended. Let me know when you see a limousine on the way to Young Harris.

As for my cancer battle, we are in a wait and see stage. I am stable and extremely grateful for that label. As most of you are aware, I have been through two major cancer bouts, one in 1985 and another in 1998. The prognosis was poor and I spent months in hospice. Two years ago my kidneys shut down and I was on dialysis. Thankfully, that episode of my life is past history and, for now, my life is reasonably normal.

My tenure as temporary administrator of the MACA has happily concluded. The school is in good hands. Buddy and I are now able to concentrate more on our fledgling Ye Old Coin Shop which is within spittin’ distance of our home. Buddy installed a video camera which allows me to go back and forth without losing sight of him or arriving customers.

The best news is that I am back in the saddle again with the one passion that has been constant for most of my life. I started teaching Bible when I was twelve years old; except for a couple of respites, this has been a continuous activity for close to fifty years. Because of other responsibilities, I have been a student myself in the last several months. My batteries were re-charged with the good, old-timey teaching of Allan Driskell.

Early one morning a few weeks ago, I told Buddy that I would like to teach again and that I would like to teach in the unused, old church sanctuary. My style of teaching involves lots of visual aids and is more lecture style than small-group oriented.

That same day the Associate Minister of our church called and asked if he could come to our home and talk with Buddy and me. Following the customary small talk, his question to me was, “Would you consider teaching Bible in the old sanctuary?” Buddy and I look locked eyes and knowingly smiled. Neither of us believes in luck, so the answer was easy. With Buddy eagerly agreeing to co-partner, I accepted the assignment to teach from Genesis to Revelation.

Last week the new Sanctuary Class began with Don and Lynda Gardner assisting as facilitators. We had no idea who, if anybody, would show up. Former classes had been successful, but they were short-term and taught on a week night. Twenty-seven people showed up for the first class and, by the time you read this, another session will have concluded. The group is unusually eclectic. We have a young man in his teens and a great-grandmother who reads this column. There are singles and couples, new-comers to the community as well as old-timers.

The first lessons focused on the inspiration and origin of the Bible. I love teaching those who know little about the Bible and those who think they have heard it all. The truth of the matter is that the mysteries of the Bible are inexhaustible and there is always something more to learn. The class is open, so feel free to join us at 9:00 on Sunday mornings at McConnell Memorial Church in Hiawassee.

And, finally, about the animals. Currently we have a six-month-old, soon to be spayed, Chihuahua named Zero. Buddy’s shadow is a cat named Sam that we got from the Humane Society. Buddy helped me convert our gazebo into an outdoor aviary and I claim the twelve beautiful cockatiels. This aviary has become my personal sanctuary. There is just something about birds that give me a lift in spirit and I spend time with them daily while I study and meditate.

So now you have caught up with what I refer to as the Journal of the Living Lady non- metropolitan soap opera. It ain’t over until the … lady sings.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-08-30T12:38:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #329
Nancy White Kelly

Some kids are late bloomers. Bobby is one of them. He came to our home as the last foster child of the twelve we helped raise. Bobby was six months younger than Charlie, the miracle son who was born fifteen years after we married.

At that tender age of five, Bobby was way behind Charlie and all other boys his age. He could not count to five or speak plainly. Sadly, he had never been to a zoo or attended a single day of preschool. The academic difference between Bobby and Charlie was obvious. Charlie’s early precociousness and Bobby’s developmental delays created a chasm that was a constant challenge to bridge.

Having a different last name caused Bobby embarrassment at school. He desperately wanted to be a Kelly. When he was ten we officially adopted him. Bobby Ray Whitaker became Robert Lee Kelly.

Buddy retired. We moved to the mountains just as the boys were beginning high school. Interestingly, Bobby decided he wanted to be called Robert by his peers.

Charlie excelled in school; Bobby had no use for it. Then puberty came calling. Our sweet Bobby turned into a troubled and troubling teen-ager. His hair and clothing were outward signs of rebellion. School attendance was as spasmodic as he could arrange. Tobacco, weed, traffic tickets, and egging a neighbor’s house kept us on a first name basis with the sheriff’s department. Though he dropped out of high school, I stayed on his case until he earned a diploma through correspondence. Charlie went on to succeed in high school, college and beyond.

James Dobson once wrote that when a boy hits the teen years, parents should put him in a barrel. When he is 16, they should nail the cover shut. Jest or not, we can relate. It seems that the happiest day of our lives was when Bobby turned 18. He wanted to be on his own and we were more than glad to give him that opportunity. At least we would no longer be legally liable for his actions.

Because of his out-going personality and mechanical ability, Bobby seemed to get a job easily, but he never kept one for long. The excuses were endless. Buddy and I vacillated between enabling him and tough love. He lived at home again a couple of times, but it was difficult. We had our rules and he had his strong will.

Though nowhere near ready for responsible parenting, Bobby and his very young teen-age wife had a baby to support…stereotypical kids having kids.
The years have dwindled by now with many ups and downs. Though disappointed, we never lost hope that someday Bobby would grow up and be a productive member of society. We also prayed that he would return to his church up-bringing.

Last year maturity finally tapped him on the shoulder. Bobby set positive goals including financial stability and training in law enforcement. With his wife serving in Iraq and practically single-handedly parenting two children, his life has not been easy. But this time he persisted. Week after week he called home with a report of his written test scores, all passing. He ran the mile in good time and passed the physical agility tests. He excelled on the gun range. It all looked promising. Buddy and I held our breath.

As I write this, I am happy to report that Buddy and I have just returned from Bobby’s graduation in Forsyth. He looked nice in his freshly-ironed uniform and his badge, awarded the next day, shines as brightly as his countenance. He now as a new goal: a degree in criminal justice.
As I said, some children are late bloomers. Buddy and I are glad to have lived long enough to see this flower-child blossom into the responsible young man that he has become. And, the best news is that last week Bobby and his children were in church.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-08-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #328

Nancy White Kelly

The blur lasted twenty-four hours. On Tuesday I was visiting a new surgeon to discuss an old problem. The next morning I was on the operating table.

Back in the eighties, I supposedly had a single hernia. Those were the days prior to routine MRI’s and CAT scans. Yet, under the bright lights, the surgeon found three. Those hernias were repaired with a mesh screen similar to the one on our porch door. Through all these years that screen has kept my intestines inside and the flies out. After two weeks in the hospital and a month of recuperation time, that episode of my life saga became a slight blip in my medical records.

However, over the last several months, it became increasingly obvious I was either expecting a baby or had swallowed an ever-expanding soccer ball. My mind searched for reasonable answers. The lost and found section of the paper listed several lost doggies but no errant balls.

My obstetrician wouldn’t even take my call. I couldn’t get through to his answering service either. In his defense, he had a satisfactory alibi. He died twenty years ago.

Obviously, my current oncologist preferred that I choose my surgeon from his affiliated group. I considered it. All my cancer records were in Gainesville. Yet, setting up surgery would require at least one preliminary appointment with an unknown surgeon. Then there would be pre-op trips over the mountain for lab work followed by another journey on the day of surgery. There would be at least one other trip for the post-op follow-up. I am not a mathematician, but even I could figure that the cost of gas was rivaling the cost of the operation. Economics was my incentive to check out other options.

I met Dr. W. Moody once in an informal setting when he was settling his family into the local area. I made a mental note of his politeness and professionalism. Faced with my immediate need of a surgeon, I checked his credentials and spoke with a friend who had been Dr. Moody’s patient a few weeks before. Everything I heard was positive.

My appointment with the Blairsville surgeon went well. What put him at the top of my short list was that he was a humble man of faith. I go the other direction when I meet a physician with a narcissistic “God-complex.” I desire a doctor with excellent skills acquired by hard work. But I also want a doctor who consults with the Great Physician.

Dr. Moody met all my qualifications. He earned an opportunity to either slam dunk that bulging ball or deliver an infamous infant.

Surprise! There was no soccer ball, no baby, nor even three hernias. Instead, Dr. Moody found FIVE hernias. They are now securely contained within a prison made of medical mesh with no hope of a curtain call.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-08-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #327

Nancy White Kelly

School has started. This time last year I was burning the candle at both ends as a last minute fill-in school administrator. I hadn’t been in that role for fourteen years. Now that a permanent administrator is in place, I am refocusing my time and energy. Funny how some of our younger friends think that retirement means sitting in rocking chairs and drinking sweet tea while life passes by. I have so many interests that it is often difficult to fit everything in.

Someone asked the other day how I got interested in numismatics. That is the proper term for the hobby of coin-collecting. I don’t remember a specific date or place. My desire to learn about old coins evolved from listening to an aunt tell interesting stories at family gatherings as she showed her books of shiny coins. Many dated back to the 1800’s. As I grew older, I began to understand how this study of money correlated with almost every academic subject I encountered in high school and college. Few people relate money, the basic commodity of all time, to history, language, economics, art, metallurgy, mathematics and even religion.

Beginning with a couple of treasured silver dollars given to me by my grandmother’s twin sister, I started my journey into the hobby of numismatics. In the back of my mind I envisioned having a little coin shop someday. That someday is now.

A few years ago I decided to formally expand my numismatic education and took courses from the American Numismatic Association. Hanging on my wall is a certificate that says I am a “Numismatic Scholar.” I humbly decline that designation. The specialized field is too vast.

Like a good spouse, Buddy has always supported my endeavors which have been many and varied. I learned several years ago that that his knowledge of coins was limited. I mentioned one day in casual conversation that I sure would like to have an 1877 Indian head penny. He asked how much it cost and I held up four fingers.

A couple of months later Buddy admitted that he had gone to the near-by coin store to obtain the Indian cent to put with a present for an up-coming anniversary. The proprietor carefully boxed up the well-circulated 1877 penny and placed it in a bag. Buddy promptly laid down four one dollar bills on the counter. To his chagrin, the dealer informed him that he was a little short. The Indian penny cost four hundred dollars. I can only imagine the conversation that ensued with the coin dealer and my sweet, but plain-spoken Mississippi-born husband.

Consequently, Buddy has left the financial management of the coin business to me. He does everything else: plumbing, carpentry, painting, and in spite of my frowning countenance, entertains customers, young and old, with his never-ending repertoire of airplane stories.

Sadly, seldom a week goes by that someone doesn’t appear with a wedding band or some old halves in hopes that they are worth enough to buy a tank of gas. The truth of the matter is that I occasionally buy what I don’t need or want. Donald Trump would not approve, but I march to a different drummer.

Recently an elderly couple dropped by the shop. The old man toted in several heavy jars of pre-1965 silver change that he had accumulated during his working years. He wanted to take his wife on one last trip together while they were still mobile. He had no extra money for such an extravagance in sour economic times. Then he remembered those olds jars of change. It took me several hours to sort through all of it, but there was enough for them to take a short, but memorable vacation.

Numismatics will probably always be an important facet of my life, but the living lady has many other interests to pursue. Right now a dozen chirping cockatiels in the outdoor aviary are trying to get my attention. I must have a customer.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-07-18T17:19:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #326

Nancy White Kelly

It is summer time. For some of us, the living is easy. Buddy is busy tending to the garden which is coming in big time. We put up cucumbers and squash yesterday. The green beans will be ready for canning later this week.
I am discovering that being retired can be defined as being tired and tired again. Other than the over-due ironing, the house chores are once again getting accomplished in spite of necessary senior siestas.

Our grandsons, Micah and Noah, ages 3 and 1, came with Charlie and Tori for a visit this week. It is interesting to watch your off-spring assume the parenting role. Charlie received several of Buddy’s good qualities. Thankfully he has my seldom flappable personality. Buddy worries about everything. I worry about little.

Charlie doesn’t over-react to normal preschool-age behavior. When the boys occasionally push Tori’s buttons, Charlie gives welcome relief and restores calm. He’s a good daddy. Tori is a good mother. They are the typical American family of four.

Bobby, the son we adopted out of the foster system at the age of ten, is atypical. His wife Ginger is an MP serving in Iraq. Though he was formerly in the National Guard, an unexpected fluke kept him from joining the army at the same time Ginger signed. Bobby has assumed the role of Mr. Mom.
They have two children, Mackenzie, age 8, and Alex, age 5.

Being essentially a single parent is tough. Bobby is in officer’s training at Reidsville prison, one of the toughest penitentiaries in Georgia. Bobby relates stories regarding life inside prison that are chilling. Already he has broken a prisoner’s ribs in self-defense. For no apparent reason, the inmate attacked him while serving a meal tray through a small opening.

Bobby loves the new job, but struggles trying to juggle child care in the military town of Hinesville. He faces an hour drive each way and must make arrangements to get the children to childcare and race back to get them before late penalties apply. School starts soon. Bobby may be required to attend four weeks of training in a town that is too far to commute. Unfortunately his good neighbors are moving away, leaving him without back-up support.

Bobby may be faced with giving up the best job he’s ever had and revert to being solely Mr. Mom. We hope not. But he is not alone. There are millions of single parents fighting similar struggles daily with no extended family living close by.

Summer time and the reality is that living is not easy for many. We must simply face each new day with renewed energy and optimism. That is especially true for us in the greatest generation. I have biblical reasons to be hopeful, but secular sources also confirm the benefit of optimism.

An article in the November issue of General Psychiatry stated: "A predisposition toward optimism seems to provide a survival benefit in elderly subjects with relatively short life expectancies otherwise.”

I would rather be the optimist who sees the light of the candle where there is none than the pessimist who runs to blow it out. The Living Lady chooses to believe that hope springs eternal no matter what season of the year or season of life.”

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-07-05T17:12:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #325

Nancy White Kelly

It took a year to get my school office to my liking with coordinated drapery, pictures, and knick-knacks. MACA was in brand new facilities and I wanted the administrator’s office to reflect both warmth and professionalism.

Almost everything in that office came either from our home or from boxes stored away in the attic since the early 90’s. That was when I first retired as principal. I am officially retired again and find myself with a porch full of boxes and nowhere to put it all.

One of life’s lessons is that no matter how empty a space is, in time it will become full and running over with even more stuff. The walls and shelves at home are all covered with replacements and the office decorations have nowhere to return. Some of it has gone to the shelters. Most likely the rest will end up in the attic for an eventual yard sale.

Though I have no thoughts of employment in the future, who knows what is down the road. My being asked to head the Mountain Area Christian Academy at a tenuous time last summer came the very same week we had our grand opening of Ye Old Coin Shop. Even with school responsibilities, Buddy and I have limped through keeping the shop open for business, mostly on Saturday and by appointment. Collectors are beginning to realize that we are open most of the time now as originally planned.

Conveniently, the coin shop is only twenty feet from our back door. With the assistance of security cameras, it is easy to keep an eye on the shop and attend to household duties in-between customers wanting to buy or sell gold and silver coins. In case you missed us during the transition, our phone number is 706-379-1488. We are located exactly one mile from Young Harris College at the corner of Byers Creek and Southern Rd.

While seeking to find room for the excess, I have come across interesting and forgotten memorabilia. The item that especially stands out is a well-worn autograph book belonging to my Aunt Georgia Rose. She was my mother’s only sister. Aunt Georgia passed away in the 70’s from a stroke.
The thin autograph book is dated June 6, 1918, and is filled with comments written in her 9th grade year at Humes High School in Memphis. Most were written neatly in stylish Elizabethan script.

These are some of my favorites:

“Yours till Niagara Falls.” Marion.

“When you get married and your husband get’s cross, pick up the broom and show him whose boss. Yours till Doom’s Day.” Mary.

“Georgia, Remember when you were a wee wee tot and your mother made you sit on a cold pot whether you had to pee or not.” Jane

“Love many, trust few. And always paddle your own canoe.” Margaret

“Life is like deck of cards: when you are in love, it’s hearts. When you are engaged, it diamonds. When you’re married it is clubs. When you are dead, it is spades.” Jennie

Aunt Georgia was a zany character who had no children. Her hair and make-up was always perfect. She wore classy clothes. Her house was spotless. It had a pleasant, but distinct fragrance which I could never identify. Thinking back, maybe it was the odor of very clean. In contrast, our humble home had five noisy children and the typical smells of family living.

The school autographs were eerily fore-telling. Aunt Georgia married my Uncle Diamond. She was boss. She paddled her own canoe. And she died.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-06-19T17:13:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #324
Nancy White Kelly

In our 43 years of marriage, Buddy has changed from a shy Mississippi country boy to a non-stop comedian. It was his dry wit that drew me initially. Now his wit is not so subtle. Sometimes I approve. Often I don’t, but I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

Like on Mother’s Day. Just before the morning service, the pastor was politely greeting little ole ladies while standing on the floor in front of the platform. Suddenly Buddy snatched my fancy hat and put it on his own head. Up he jumped from the pew and headed down the center aisle. In front of God and everybody, he bear-hugged the surprised preacher.

Buddy has never been a respecter of persons. Family lineage or community status doesn’t impress him a bit. He is what he is and assumes everybody else was born on flat land too. I have always admired that quality in him.

There is a twelve year difference in our ages. Buddy graduated from high school when I was in first grade. When he asked me to marry him, I insisted that he pay the obligatory visit to my parents to ask for my hand. Poor fellow. My mother put him through the third degree and was highly skeptical that he had been married before. He hadn’t. It just took a long time to find me.

There are advantages and disadvantages to marrying an older man. He was mature, had his education behind him, and was employed with a secure company or so we thought. Eastern Airlines later bit the dust. Still Buddy had accumulated wisdom and life experience that is atypical of newlyweds.

Buddy grew up in a three-room house. Utility, not beauty, was priority. He never out-grew that idea. About half-way through our marriage, I gave in. Having a house decorated like those in the glossy magazines wasn’t going to happen with my man around.

Yes, he is forgetful. He feigns senility at times just to aggravate me. No, he doesn’t hear well. How could he? Three sets of hearing aids sit in the top drawer of the bureau. He ought to own stock in Metamucil.

At last count Buddy had nine pairs of pants and fourteen shirts. Yet he wears the same outfit day in and day out. That is, if he gets by me in the morning. Sunday is an exception. No matter how early we rise, Buddy waits until the last possible minute to decide which of two suits to wear and can never remember which tie matches.

I remind him occasionally that he won’t find another woman who would put up with nails in the bedroom furniture so he can hang his keys, but it is a small price to pay for a good man. How many young men get up first, make the coffee, get the morning paper and then gently awakens his wife? Now that I am retired again, he has resumed that daily habit and I hope he never stops.

It never dawns on him to open a door or pull out a chair for his wife, but Buddy would search the world for me if I disappeared. His grammar lacks polish, but he never fails to unashamedly say he loves me or show it in hundreds of little ways.

Our wedding picture looks nothing like either of us now. We are held together by an accumulation of spare parts: nuts, bolts, wire, cat gut, mercury fillings, titanium and plastic. We have shared memories that nobody else has and neither of us is complete without the other.

When I look around and see my friends who are now widows, Buddy’s imperfections fade into oblivion. The calendar is moving swiftly and the clock is ticking. I treasure every day with him. It is a selfish wish for certain, but I secretly hope I go first. That may not be. He has my permission to re-marry, but he won’t. Neither will I.

Age aside, love like ours is a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

-----

2008-06-04T18:20:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #323
Nancy White Kelly

When spring arrives somebody ought to do Buddy a favor by locking me up until winter comes again. I go crazy just as soon as the flowers start budding and the birds start singing.

Usually it starts with Easter chicks and ducks. Some years I spontaneously buy colorful birds that catch my fancy in the pet shop or at a flea market. Usually there is a puppy in the Kelly mix and maybe a kitten too.

We have two cockatiels now, Tick and newly acquired Tock. In case you missed that story, go to www.thelivinglady.blogspot.com. We also have Siamese cat named Sam we got from the Humane Society. His owner was killed in a motorcycle accident.

In my rush to shed the winter blahs, I always plant spring flowers too early. Frost usually renders the first attempt null and void. Spring-themed banners and whimsical yard ornaments follow the gardening splurge.

Ye Old Coin Shop, which is located next to our house, was painted a bright canary yellow last spring. Charlie hates that color, but I remind him that he no longer lives with us. (Due to the economy, we had to let him go.)

Now that spring has sprung again, I have been in my usual spring craziness mode. This time I started on the puppy jag having lost our two Chihuahuas in the past year or so. Oppie died of kidney failure at the old age of 14. In our grief, we quickly acquired a darling puppy we named Midget who loved to play outside.

We forgot to close off the doggie door one afternoon when we went for a quick bite at a local restaurant. When we returned there was a message on our answering machine. She had been hit by a car. That was a sad day. I haven’t wanted another dog until recently.

While casually browsing on the Internet, I came across Craig’s list which runs classified ads. Sure enough there was a picture of a darling white Chihuahua with black spots and alert pointed ears.
The woman, whom I came to know as Amanda, shared that she worked for the Ameri-Peace Corp in Cameroon and was gone long hours. She really hated parting with little Tess, but her schedule and the grueling heat in Africa was taking its toll on the puppy.

Amanda said Tess weighed 2 pounds, was 4 months old, and never met a stranger. She had all her shots and was even AKC registered. Tess was leash-trained and fully housebroken. Had she spoken seven languages, she would have been perfect. Of course, I could have found a Chihuahua locally, but that picture of Tess just melted my heart. I had to have her. No other puppy would do.

Amanda and I corresponded back and forth by email several times before she selected me as the best choice of caretaker for little Tess. The really good news was that Amanda was giving me the puppy. Buddy, oblivious to this all, would have nothing to complain about. She was free. All I had to pay was the airfare which was a reasonable expectation. There was to be a nine-hour flight out of Cameroon to Atlanta that next evening.

Amanda sent me a couple of emails warning me to put up any toxic chemicals around the house and to hide any cords that Tess might chew. She also wanted assurance that my vet would check her out after arrival in the states.

PayPal wasn’t an option for her, so we agreed on Western Union. She came up with a test question and answer that only she and I would know. That way only she could claim the wired money.

I carefully filled out the Western Union paperwork at a local grocery desk. While in a happy and generous mood, I added a little extra to cover her gas. After all, she was a humanitarian worker. It was the right thing to do.

That was on Friday afternoon. All evening and late into the night I anxiously checked my computer for confirmation of the arrival time in Atlanta.

On Saturday morning I got an email from Amanda saying that the airport agent required insurance. She had just paid her rent and only had enough to make it through the month. Amanda’s email brought an urgent appeal. Could I cover the unexpected cost? Tess was now sitting in a cage at the hot airport and time was of the essence.

Before I could reply, I got a call from Cameroon. In broken English, a rude man informed me that I had to send $850 now so the puppy could go out on that last flight. That money would ensure that the dog was properly fed and cared for. Any money left over would be returned when I picked her up. What? Every possible emotion coursed through my body as I realized I was being scammed.

I was angry at Amanda, at the man, and most of all at myself. I learned a valuable lesson and a costly one. Never ever send money by Western Union to somebody you don’t know no matter how convincing they sound.

I have since learned that this is a common scam and many gullible others have also been victims. There is no recourse. I console myself that a bad experience is sometimes the price of a practical education.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I will never be scammed again… unless it is spring.
_________
nancyk@alltel.net

2008-05-24T12:30:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #322

Granted, Tick is an unusual name for a cockatiel bird. But that is what I named the little chirper who caught my ear when I entered the local pet store a few months ago.

Years ago I bought over 100 of these small birds from a traveling vagabond on the way to Florida. I had the bright idea of raising them for fun and profit. That was back when ours boys, one by birth, one adopted, were around 12-years-of age.

Bobby had little interest, so Charlie became the budding entrepreneur. Looking back, it was probably was not a good idea. My intent was teaching responsibility and giving an opportunity to earn extra pocket money. Charlie was keen at first, willingly giving up the abandoned tree house for an aviary.

The experiment lasted about as long as the worm farm, but though his interest waned, my love of birds continued. Eventually I earned a certificate in ornithology from Cornell University just because. Dabbling in new experiences has been the story of my life, but back to Tick.

Tick went home with me the day I discovered him in the pet shop. I was on a mad dash to get back to school after a quick lunch. I constantly glanced at my watch, thinking tick, tock, tick, tock. The friendly clerk seemed oblivious to time whereas I am a perpetual clock watcher. Tick seemed an appropriate name for my new little friend and it stuck. I was duly warned at the pet shop that Tick was an escape artist.

I have never been one for single animals. About a week later, I added Tock, a yellow female cockatiel. Tick was elated with his new girlfriend and sang to her daily. He even learned the first few bars of the Andy Griffin theme song. Our Siamese cat, Sam, lay contently on the floor listening to Tick chirp or sing. He never seemed even remotely interested in harming either of the birds.

When the weather started turning warmer, we moved Tick and Tock to the screened front porch. I even added a home-made nesting box in hopes of future Tockettes.

My afternoon routine included playing with Tick and Tock, changing the cage papers, and adding new food. One recent day Tick was not in the cage. The safety clip was still in place on the front door. I knocked on the nesting box, but no response.

I called for Tick, but no familiar chirp returned. I started searching the porch and, alas, found a pile of white feathers and a hole in the screen where Sam apparently had made his entry.

To this day, I don’t know how Tick got out of the cage unless he managed to pull the seed slide door. It is so small that he would have had to struggle to get through it.

It has been less than a week since the loss. Tock is lonely and I check on her often. Today she left me a gift...a tiny white egg. She must have a mate. So off to the pet store I go in search of a new Tick.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-05-11T15:01:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #321

Nancy White Kelly

The month of May is one of the busiest for the Living Lady. Being a school administrator means being involved in lots of activities. I have been to the community playgrounds, eaten hot dogs, taken trips, given awards and still have much ahead: baccalaureate services, athletic banquets, dress-up dinners, and then, of course, there is graduation.

Behind the scenes there are board meetings, parent interviews, phone calls, teacher interviews, curriculum reviews and numerous end-of-the-year class parties. Believe me, these are just the highlights.

For someone with cancer, it seems miraculous that I have functioned well enough to lead in the educational arena again, but my passion is still to write, teach and speak. This unexpected thrust into the working world again has been rewarding, but hopefully I will be able to focus again on being a wife, mother and grandmother soon.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. Buddy wanted to buy me something special. While I appreciated the thought, I gently reminded him that he wasn’t my mother. My boys did remember and that was nice. The cards and calls brought back memories of my own mother who was our family’s version of Lucille Ball. She loved her five children with all her heart.

On the day of her funeral, my youngest brother stopped for gas at a convenience store. After pumping the gas, he waited patiently in front of the cash register while another young man, probably in his twenties, fumed. The fellow complained that his mother had him leave the football game he was watching on television to go buy some milk. He threw the money on the counter in a childish display of anger.

My brother tapped him on the shoulder. “Be glad you have a mother still. I just buried mine.” The young man dropped his head and meekly left without a word.

As busy as we are, we should never be too busy to remember those who are so special to us, but not just on special days. Several years ago, before the world was the crazy place it is now, a man stopped at a florist to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived 200 miles away. As he got out of his car, he noticed a young teen-age girl sitting on the curb sobbing.

He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother. But I only have 75 cents and a rose cost 2 dollars."

The kind man smiled and said "Come with me. I'll buy you a rose." He bought the girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.

As they were leaving, he offered the girl a ride home. She hesitated but said, "Yes, please! Take me to my mother."

She directed him to a cemetery several blocks away. As they approached a freshly dug grave, she jumped from the car and ran. With tears streaming from her face, she placed the rose on the heap of dirt.

The man returned to the flower shop, cancelled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the 200 miles to his mother's house.

nancyk@alltel.net

2008-04-19T16:36:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #320
Nancy White Kelly

It there is ever an emergency or urgency in our household, you can be sure it will occur on the week-end. Busy sorting old coins, I picked up the ringing phone.

“Ye Old Coin Shop.”

The man on the other end sounded cheerful enough.

“Is this Dr. Kelly?”

“It is. How can I help you?”

He introduced himself as “Ted” with Clearcheck Collection Agency. Now that is not a company I was familiar with.

“And how can I help you?” I asked again, genuinely puzzled.

“You made a purchase at So-and-So drugstore in Blairsville, Georgia, on March 31st for $69.00.”
I vaguely remembered. “And?”

“Your check was returned. Are aware there is a $30 returned check fee.”

I interrupted him. “Excuse me. My check should not have bounced.”

“But it did. You need to send us $69.00 plus the $30 returned check fee today.”

My blood pressure was rising.

“That is impossible” I said. “We have an adequate amount of money in our bank account to cover that check.” I knew it was so because I had just checked the balance the day before.

“Mam, you need to send us $99. We are a COLLECTION AGENCY.”
My mind swirled as I tried to remember the many scams I have read about recently in emails and in consumer magazines.

“You are mistaken, sir. We haven’t bounced a check.”

He proceeded to give me a check number which certainly sounded like one of the series we were using. Ted said I could check it out on-line at clearcheck.com. I assured him that I would and that somebody would owe me an apology. He proceeded to tell me that they would take a credit card on-line. Hmm.

Our bank in Young Harris is not open on Saturday and there was nobody for me to call or vent to. I probably needed a doctor as my blood pressure had risen enough to launch a space shuttle.
Sure enough, on line I was able to see a picture of the check I had written. I carefully read all the information and it seemed correct. That was my signature. This was puzzling. Surely our bank would have notified us if we had a check that bounced. It hadn’t.

I called the chain drugstore in Blairsville and asked to speak to the manager. She was not there, but the assistant was.

“Does your drugstore use a company called Clearcheck?” Without hesitation the manager replied that it was. I told her how I was called by a collection agency. The manager explained that the drugstore doesn’t even know when a check bounces and gave me an 800 number to call.
Being the week-end, of course, I couldn’t reach anybody but a foreigner who informed me in imprecise English to call back during normal business hours.

There was nothing to be done until Monday. My school schedule doesn’t permit me time to take care of such things, so Buddy became the main man. I presented him with the information that I had scribbled down. I braced for his reaction which, if a video, would be named, “Dial M for Mutter.” He fumed all that day and the next.

Even though Buddy had to be in Ashville for a medical appointment, he was up at sunrise on Monday. He was standing at the bank window as they opened the blinds. The pleasant teller spotted the problem immediately. The check had been routed to the wrong bank.

Back at home, Buddy called the 800 number he was given. As expected, he got the robotic “If you want a certain party, dial 1.” Dial 1 directed him to another 800 number. After 5 demands to punch in any number from 1-5, he was finally given to a human being.

I would not have wanted to be the lady he finally reached. He went through the entire spiel again. The lady said she would take care of it. No apology was forth-coming.

Buddy wasn’t ugly, but he was emphatic, “It will be a cold day in you know where before ya’ll get my $30.”

The next day Buddy got a call from the drugstore. “You need to send Clearcheck another check for the $69 since they are the ones who still have it.” We haven’t and probably never will.

My question is, “What happens if Clearcheck deposits the first as well as the second check?” Call me anything, but “S-T-U-P-I-D” is not how you spell it.

*******************
nancyk@alltel.net

2008-04-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #319
Nancy White Kelly

You will never hear me complain about birthdays. Living through two major bouts of metastatic cancer makes me appreciate every one of them. Yet, getting older brings limitations. Cutting my own toenails is beyond me now.

I can barely reach my toes which are not entirely due to age. While putting on hosiery is a struggle, it is still doable. Trimming my own toenails is impossible.

For the last couple of years I have joined the rank of the privileged. Frugal me has paid someone else to do that chore, heretofore unthinkable.

Working five days a week as a school marm, plus Saturdays at the Ye Old Coin Shop, make time a precious commodity. I took advantage of having a few extra hours during spring break and stopped by a leased nail salon inside Wally World. No appointment was needed.

A pleasant Asian-looking woman settled me into a vibrating chair that provided a pulsating back massage. What a welcomed retreat.I shut my eyes to the world. Without conversation, the girl guided each foot in and out of the swirling water with jus the poke of a finger.

Unexpectedly, the pedicurist had an aggressive style. She scrubbed my soles and toes with a short brush. Each sweep of the bristles began with a jab. The rough brushing became increasingly uncomfortable. I said nothing, believing that the procedure was a taught one which would soon stop.

My golden silence became red blood when the girl brushed the exterior of my big toe one last time. Unfazed, the young woman dabbed my raw toe with wet cotton before painting my toenails. No acknowledgement or apology was forthcoming. Nonchalantly she moved to next customer.

I waited in quiet shock as the toe paint dried. After several minutes I gathered my purse and glasses. The girl informed me that I needed to wait another 30 minutes before wearing my shoes. Noticing my frown, she offered some thin yellow flip-flops. I paid the male cashier as if nothing unusual had happened and even gave the girl a tip. At home I applied a topical ointment hoping that all would be well eventually.

All during the night my toe throbbed. When I told Buddy I was going to skip Sunday school, he knew something was wrong. He over-reacted just as I feared he might. It was good that the salon was closed and the girl unidentified. If you know my Buddy, it is a bad thing to mess with his wife.

Buddy hurriedly changed his church clothes. Mumbling something about staph, he pretended to order me into the car. That began a brief spat.

“Not going,” I argued. “Emergency rooms are for life-threatening emergencies.”

“This could cost you your toe, your foot and even your life,” he replied. “Get into the car.”I finally gave in to the benign badgering and offered a compromise.

Buddy drove to the walk-in clinic much too fast. Ironically we ended up waiting nearly three hours amidst coughing and barfing.

The diagnosis was as expected: “Punctured toe, infected abrasion...” Antibiotics were prescribed.
It has been three days now. Small red lines are sprouting north of my toe knuckle. (There is such a thing, isn’t there?)

I’ll watch and wait. My purse is $24 dollars lighter for the pedicure. Needless to say the pedicurist didn’t cure my ped. A check for the prescriptions will hit the bank tomorrow. I can hardly wait for the doctor bill.

The only up-side to this story is that I have ten pretty toenails.
_____________
nancyk@alltel.net

2008-03-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

Journal of a Living Lady #318
Nancy White Kelly

Spring is springing, but don’t be fooled. Blackberry winter is a reality in these parts. Buddy and I moved from South L.A. in 1994. (That is lower Atlanta for those of you who moved here from somewhere yonder.) New to the mountains, we quickly learned not to put our cold-weather clothes away too soon. In late spring, Buddy stores our winter things in the attic above the garage. It is a steep climb up that wooden ladder Buddy built 14years ago. He isn’t as agile as he used to be. I have never been agile and seldom do ladders, even the three-foot kind. Buddy shouldn’t do ladders either at his age. He fell off one recently.

My Buddy is a great guy, but a poor patient. He whined about soreness for days. I was grateful he didn’t break a hip, but rolled my eyes after the umpteenth time of hearing about it. Granted, I wasn’t born to be a nurse.

Several days ago I called to check on a neighbor who was recovering from minor surgery. For thirty minutes she gave me a blow by blow description of every quiver of her bowels for the last ten days. I patiently listened. It was all so moving, but be assured she won’t be hearing from me anytime in the near future. Some things you don’t discuss ad infinitum and constipation is one of them…at least not with me.

But, if you want to whine about taxes, I’ll join you. As I get out my receipts, calculator, IRS forms, and another cup of coffee, I will share with you one of my favorite stories:
While eating at a local buffet, a man suddenly called out, "My son's choking! He swallowed a quarter! Help! Please, anyone! Help!"

A man from a nearby table stood up and announced that he was quite experienced at this sort of thing. He stepped over with almost no look of concern at all, wrapped his arms around the boy's abdomen, and squeezed. Out popped the quarter. The man then went back to his table as though nothing had happened.

"Thank you! Thank you!" the father cried. "Are you a paramedic?"

"No," replied the man. "I work for the IRS."

The Living Lady is happy that winter will soon be over, that Buddy is not in a full-body cast, and that my friend’s digestive track is functioning properly. I will be even happier when our tax return is in the mail.

nancyk@alltel.net